Blood, Torture, and Witty Comebacks
by S. Thanatos
Summary: Our favorite Dark Lord gets his hands on Harry over the summer holidays. He plans to use Harry for nefarious purposes, but before that can happen, Harry must be 'conditioned'. Voldemort enlists his top-ranking Death Eaters to do the job... guess who's one
1. A Most Cruel Example

Okay, disclaimer. Well, if Harry Potter and Associates belong to me, then I'd be bloody rich now wouldn't I? I'm not. That should be ample proof to those of you feeble-minded enough not to know that J.K. Rowling owns them, and I, regrettably, do not. Sue not, please. Oh, and any ideas in the entirety of Blood, Torture, and Witty Comebacks that seem vaguely familiar and look like they ought to belong to someone else, probably do. I'm just using them, and I'd say which ideas come from who, but honestly no longer have a clue. Sorry if this story offends, and since I've already apologized, don't flame. There is no point; you've already got your apology now haven't you? If you insist on doing so, I'd have to say you're a bloody idiot, but then, that's just my opinion.   
Chapter One: A Most Cruel Example  
  
  
The infamous 'Boy Who Lived' woke to darkness, as he had for the last four days. He did not know where he was, only that the place also inhabited Voldemort. His scar hadn't stopped hurting for five days.  
  
"Well, Harry, got yourself into a mess this time, didn't you old boy? Just had to go out for that walk, even though you knew it wasn't safe, even though Professor Dumbledore told you not to go too far from the Dursleys except if you had a good reason.   
What's your good reason? You were bored! Yes, I can just see that conversation: 'Sorry I left the place you expressly told me not to, I just wasn't up to staring at the walls for endless hours anymore. Won't happen again, sir, swear on my mother's grave. Does she even have a grave? Oh, God, I'm pathetic. I've been reduced to talking to myself."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with that, as long as you say the right things," a pleasant voice said from outside of his cell bars. The pleasant voice had a deep timbre that echoed and bounced around Harry's dungeon room.  
  
"Hullo," Harry said, dully. "Who're you?"  
  
"Morpheus Lestrange. I'll be your torturer this evening. Come along then, let's get a look at you."   
  
The cell's door opened and a dim light shone in. The voice was revealed to be a tall, overly thin man with thin, graying hair and pure white skin. He stepped inside and peered closely at Harry, brown eyes piercing behind small, wire-rimmed glasses.  
  
"Ah, green eyes, yes, very much like the lovely Phoenix's. And hair, just like the foolhardy Crow's. You, my young friend, will be the Raven."  
  
"Right." Harry began to back away from the strange man, Morpheus Lestrange, who told him flat out that he was going to torture him that evening. Voldemort had odd followers. "So, Mr. Lestrange, how do you plan to get me to go along with you? You don't look strong enough to pick me up and drag me to wherever you're going to torture me, and you didn't bring along any of your cronies. How?"  
  
"Oh." Lestrange looked vaguely disappointed. "You won't come along willingly then?"  
  
Harry just stared incredulously at him. Yes, Voldemort should really look into getting new help. The old ones were getting incredibly fuzzy-minded.  
  
"Well, then, there's no help for it. Crucio."  
  
Somewhere in between the screaming, writhing and unceasing pain came the whispered word 'Imperio'. Harry wanted to laugh through the all too real agony. Imperio just didn't work on him; everyone should have known that by now! But the whispered 'Imperio' came again and again, until it was so mixed with the agony of Crucio that Harry ceased to notice it.   
  
Abruptly, the Cruciatus curse wore off and Harry lay, shivering on the ground, spasms rocking his chest.   
  
"Now then, little Raven, get up."  
  
Against his will, Harry stood and faced Lestrange.  
  
"We will have to go quickly, won't we, little Raven. You fight the Imperio already, and strongly too. Yes, quickly we will go to the room of ice and snow. I like making rhymes, my little Raven. You will learn that soon. Although the room isn't really of ice and snow; it just seemed to fit. My Dove likes to listen to my rhymes. You will have to meet my Dove sometime soon, little Raven. You two will like each other very much I imagine." Lestrange led the way out of the room and Harry followed, his feet moving of their own volition. Or more likely, Lestrange's.  
  
Lestrange led him down long corridors and hallways, twisting and turning until in his pain-hazed mind he no longer knew if up was down, or if right was left. Finally, just as the Imperio curse began to wear off, they stopped by a tall wooden door. Lestrange held it open and gestured it Harry in, following after.  
  
Only when the door was locked did the Imperio curse wear off. Harry threw himself at the door and tried to open it to no avail. A low laugh drew his attention back to Lestrange.  
  
"No, little Raven, there is no escape from here. Not until I say you may go, of course. So, you may as well find yourself a comfortable position; it won't be comfortable for long, I can assure you."  
  
With a flick of his wand, Lestrange sent Harry careening into the low-lying table. With another flick, straps that had gone unnoticed before came up to surround Harry until not even his pinky finger could move.   
  
"Now, I really do hope that you won't fight me during the torture, little Raven. I really don't like cursing people, but my Lord Voldemort insists that if you cause any trouble, I should cast Crucio on you. I know you don't like Crucio, but in time you may come to enjoy it. Just wait, I will show you the pleasures of pain. You will soon know what I speak of, little Raven. Soon."  
  
Lestrange mumbled partially to himself and partially to Harry as he walked over to a large wooden cabinet and opened one of its drawers. From it he withdrew a long iron rod, ending in a sharp point.   
  
"What's that for, Mr. Lestrange?" Harry eyed the rod apprehensively and tried to jerk away when Lestrange came his way, rod in hand and strange gleam in his eye.  
  
"Please, little Raven, call me Morpheus. In these kinds of relationships, a trust has to develop. It helps if we address each other by our first names, or nicknames even. Yes, little Raven, in no time we will have a deep relationship." Lestrange -Morpheus- muttered as he walked closer to Harry.   
  
"All right, Morpheus. What's that for?"  
  
"Ah, good, good. You're eager to learn! Ask many questions, Raven. Only by asking questions will you learn of what I do. And this," Morpheus hefted the iron rod in his hand experimentally, "is for your hand."  
  
"My hand?" If Harry was aware of the slight tremor in his voice, he didn't show it.   
  
"Yes," Morpheus smiled pleasantly. The lighting in the room was bright, coming from fluorescent lights. It showed every detail in exquisite reality. "It will be your first lesson, Raven. It will be a good one too."  
  
Morpheus long fingered hand clamped Harry's strapped one down, and held the palm open. Harry tried to curl it up, to prevent what was going to happen next. Morpheus tut-tutted and said, "Remember my warning, little Raven. I do not like using Crucio, but I will if you fight me."  
  
Harry glared at him, although it wasn't a personal glare. He was finding it almost impossible to really detest this man, like it was so easy to dislike Malfoy. There was just something so inherently fuzzy-minded and impersonal about the man, like he didn't really want to do what he was doing, but that he would do it because he was ordered to.  
  
"I suppose there's no alternative then," Morpheus sighed regretfully and once again raised his wand. "Crucio." The word was whispered tiredly, but with great force behind it. Distantly, through the agony, Harry felt his limp hand being held still. Suddenly the Crucio was lifted and with pain-hazed eyes, Harry watched Morpheus lift the iron rod with one hand and slam it down in a sickeningly fascinating arc while his other hand held Harry's own flat.  
  
"Gods!"   
  
He arched his back, bit deeply into his lip and drew blood, trying to keep from crying out after that initial exclamation. He tasted the copper flow as it slid down his throat and tried desperately to not spit it out. Strangely, it hadn't hurt past the first burst of pain. Looking numbly down at his hand, he noticed sickly that the iron rod was still impaled in the middle of it. Long streams of blood ran down his palm, across his wrist and dripped down to hit the ground.  
  
"Y'know, Morpheus, this has to be one of the grossest things I have ever seen." His words seemed to come from far away, whispered from a hoarse throat. He had really been abusing his voice that day; that almost constant screaming, he supposed.  
  
"Ah, but little Raven, you just haven't learned to appreciate the inherent beauty of this sight. I suppose I must give your development time; you're still young." Morpheus sounded vaguely disappointed and disgruntled.  
  
"Right. Would you mind taking that thing out of my hand now? It's not the pleasantest sensation."  
  
"I suppose you learning to appreciate pain will also take a while. Ah well, we have time."  
  
"Not much of it," a grimly amused voice said from the doorway. It must have been opened in the middle of the impaling of Harry's hand, or during the Crucio curse, because he hadn't heard it.  
  
The man in the doorway looked very familiar, somehow. An older version of Malfoy, Harry realized, only darker. His hair isn't as silvery as Malfoy's, and his eyes are blue, not gray. He must be Malfoy's Dad, Malfoy Senior.  
  
"Ah, Lucius, how are you?" Morpheus asked pleasantly, though Harry detected not a small amount of distaste in his tone. It was obvious that Morpheus didn't enjoy Lucius' presence.  
  
"Quite fine, Morpheus. And you're well, I trust. I am sorry to... deprive you of young Potter's company, but my Lord Voldemort requests that he be brought into His presence for questioning." Lucius smirked viciously and flicked his wand at Harry's straps. They opened up, but Harry didn't move.  
  
"Well, little Raven, why aren't you leaving? My lord Voldemort awaits your arrival with great eagerness, I am sure." Morpheus' voice was annoyed, most likely at the interruption of Lucius.   
  
"You still haven't taken the rod out of my hand, Morpheus. I can't move with it there; it's gone through to stick into the wood."  
  
"Oh, yes! Quite sorry about that, won't happen again, little Raven," and Morpheus gripped the iron rod, and pulled it sharply out. "Now, off you go and don't give Lucius any trouble or else he will be forced to cast Crucio on you and you won't enjoy that very much. Not for a few months, anyway, until you get used to the pain and learn to... like it."  
  
Harry shivered at the thought and stood on unsteady legs. Lucius smiled cruelly at him and his sharp blue eyes noted the fact that Harry clutched his hurt hand to his chest protectively.  
  
He motioned a pale hand, gesturing for Harry to come to his side quickly. With faltering, but proud, steps Harry went.   
  
Lucius grabbed his hand cruelly, thumb digging painfully deep into the new wound there. Harry gritted his teeth but did not say a word as he was dragged behind Lucius. Left behind, Morpheus hummed absently to himself as he cleaned the copper blood from his iron rod.  
  
Walking down the hallways, knees trembling slightly from shock, fear, apprehension and something else entirely, Harry studied his current captor's face. It wasn't as sharply angled as his son's was, more rounded and not as fragile seeming. And definitely more masculine than Malfoy Junior's could ever manage; the veela blood, Harry imagined.   
  
Lucius was looking ahead imperiously, trying not to look at his young charge if he could possibly help it. Despite him not wanting to look at the fourteen year old, Harry could sense no animosity for him coming from Lucius. More like the feeling of absent-mindedness as if Lucius hadn't had Harry's hand clutched painfully, he would have forgotten that the Boy Who Lived was currently in his possession.  
  
Harry glanced down at their conjoined hands and noticed that Lucius' hand was now covered almost completely with Harry's blood. Curiously, after the Crucio curse, his hand barely hurt after the first, initial spike of pure agony. I wonder if Morpheus did that on purpose, Harry wondered absently to himself. He seems like he does this too often to have forgotten that Crucio would deaden my nerves. Maybe he just forgot; he does seem odd.  
  
Abruptly, Lucius stopped and turned, pinning Harry against the hard wall. He brought the short boy up until they were eye to eye, his own blue eyes dominating Harry's green. They stood like that for a few moments, neither one doing or saying anything although Lucius seemed to be looking for something in Harry's gaze. His blue eyes narrowed when he didn't find whatever it was.  
  
"So, you're not afraid of me, boy? You will be, soon."  
  
And he dropped Harry back to the ground, his hand still holding Harry's excruciatingly tight. Once again, they began to walk, Harry a bit more disoriented than before.  
  
After a few long minutes, they stopped in front of large, double metal doors with no handles. Lucius tapped on the doors and waited impatiently. Within seconds a figure, shrouded in black, opened the door and let the two in.   
  
Harry's scar, which already hurt, exploded with pain. The reason for it stared at him, distantly amused.   
  
"So, Potter, we meet again. How... pleasant."  
  
Voldemort's voice was just as Harry remembered it: slithery and sibilant, like a snake's. It shivered up Harry's spine and sent cool chills racing across his body.   
  
Before Harry could reply to Voldemort's words, the repulsive man had his wand pointed directly at his chest. He muttered a few words that were indistinguishable and a stream of white light impacted Harry's chest. It spread tingly warmth throughout his body and shot down his legs and through the floor.  
  
"I'm done, Lucius. You may take him away for now, but do not torture him tonight. We must see if the spell will hold, first of all."   
  
Voldemort's slithery words seemed to come from a very long distance. Harry contemplated that thought dreamily as he followed along behind Draco...   
  
No, that man's not Draco Malfoy, Harry told himself sternly, trying to regain control of his thoughts. That's his dad, Lucius Malfoy. Who told you just a few minutes ago that you would be very scared of him, sooner or later. Harry snickered lightly to himself. Most likely later: Merlin knows Malfoy isn't terror inspiring and I'm willing to bet he gets that characteristic from his Dad. Like father, like son.  
  
Lucius glanced down sharply and distastefully at the young boy, obviously disappointed he hadn't gotten the chance to torture the infamous Boy Who Lived. He seemed baffled by Harry's strange behavior, as was Harry himself. He just didn't understand why he felt like laughing at the crack in the wall, even if said crack was shaped in the most interesting way that looked just like Malfoy, Junior, with an egg cracked over his head and a snake biting his nose.  
  
Unintentionally, Harry giggled at the crack in the wall.   
  
Lucius threw a sarcastic look his way, but didn't say a word. Harry followed him, though he had no choice in the matter, still seeing funny things in prosaic objects. He wondered, in the midst of contemplating his shoelace, whether or not Voldemort had used a spell to alter his mind, or something similar.   
  
Right now, I'm not sure I even have a mind, he thought to himself. I'm certainly not using it the way that most do. Well, unless you count Gilderoy Lockheart. I doubt he has a mind to use. He laughed at his thoughts again, and Lucius gave him yet another odd look.  
  
"I'd heard that the binding spell had strange after effects, but this is ridiculous," Harry heard Lucius mutter to himself.  
  
They continued walking down the floor that way, Harry laughing himself hoarse over the slightest thing and Lucius habitually rolling his eyes, not daring to subdue the boy for fear of Voldemort's retribution. Though, maybe a few bruises wouldn't hurt...  
  
No, Lucius shook his head abruptly. Lord Voldemort forbid it. He sighed regretfully. Soon.   
  
They suddenly stopped in front of a dimly lit cell. A man and a woman, both in their late twenties or so, occupied it. They stared at Malfoy and Harry, dull eyes inquisitive. Malfoy sneered contemptuously at them and magicked the door open with a twitch of his wand. He pushed Harry in and closed the door in the space of a few seconds.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow, Potter. And we'll start those lessons in fear I was telling you about." With that last threatening comment (Which made Harry chuckle like mad, for truly, what could someone who's son turned into a bouncing ferret, do to him?) Malfoy slouched off to the unknown, his pale blond (but yet, not as pale as Malfoy, junior's) shining dimly in the reflected light of the torches' flames.  
  
The other occupants of Harry's new home looked at him curiously, both eyes being a dull mud color.  
  
"Hello, who're you, what'd you do to be here, how'd you get caught and d'you have your wand?" The man asked, all in a breathless stream.  
  
Harry stared at him, the strange effects of whatever spell Voldemort cast on him starting to wear off. "Uh, I'm Harry, I lived, I was walking around and my wand's still locked up with the rest of my magical stuff. That answers your questions, I think."  
  
The woman nudged the man playfully and grinned. "Don't mind Donnelly, Harry. He gets caught up in these things."  
  
The man nudged the woman back playfully. "Like you're one to talk, Sleighly! Don't pay any attention to her, Harry, she's delusional!"  
  
"Uh, I would appreciate knowing your names..." Harry muttered, mainly to himself, but nevertheless his two cellmates heard.  
  
"Oh, so sorry," Donnelly said sheepishly. "I am Rick Donnelly and this," he gestured to the woman with a dramatic arm movement, "is my esteemed colleague, Susan Sleighly. We were caught unawares going back to our flat (we're roommates, y'see) from one of our performances (we're part of the best acting wizard troupe you've ever seen!), when these Death Eaters jumped out from no where and Stunned us!"  
  
"Oh, they did not jump out from nowhere," Susan said indignantly. "Don't pay any attention to him, Harry, he's just too caught up with his acting to actually tell a story without embellishing it until it's barely distinguishable. To be terribly, brutally honest, we were drunk."  
  
Rick squawked with outrage. "I was not! You lie, evil woman!"  
  
"So now I'm an evil woman? Just a few seconds ago, I was your 'esteemed colleague'!"  
  
"Well, things change fast when people show their true colors!"  
  
"Oh, honestly! Do you think you could shut up long enough for me to finish telling our guest the rest of the story?"  
  
Rick subsided, but still glowered at Susan. In the slight lighting, Harry could tell that they were both of average height, and both extremely slender (though Susan had very curvy curves). They both had dark brown hair, and it was impossible to tell the color of their eyes, though they seemed dark.   
  
"Right, where was I?" Susan asked a still silent Harry.  
  
"To be terribly, brutally honest, you were drunk," Harry supplied helpfully.  
  
"Oh, right," Susan beamed. "Yes, we were drunk, I'm ashamed to say. We had just learned that we were getting hired! Our first job! Yes, since officially receiving our license to practice our craft, we had a real, paying job! It was exhilarating news, you just can't imagine!"  
  
"All right, Sleighly, now who's embellishing?" Rick's tone was condescending, but Susan rounded on him with smug superiority.   
  
"I'm not lying, Donnelly. All I said was the complete and utter truth. Now shut up."  
  
Rick glared at Susan, but didn't say anything.   
  
"Right, now that his annoyingness has left us alone, I'll continue with the story. So, we were ecstatic at this prosperous news, of course, and so we went and got drunk, which is what any self-respecting person, wizard or muggle, would do in the event of such a momentous occasion. The problems arose when we were walking home... We don't, by any stretch of the imagination, share a romantic interest, by the way. Rather, we decided to live together to cut down on expenses and because it was easier to collaborate and really, Donnelly had this terrific apartment that I was just dying to move into, only he didn't want any roommates, but he was about to lose it because we really weren't making much in those months, and then I just came up to him and said, 'How 'bout we be roomies, Donnelly? We're always together anyway,' says I. And then Donnelly just agrees and so we've been living together for how long now?"  
  
"Five and half bloody months," Rick growled. "If you wouldn't mind getting back on track Sleighly. I sure would appreciate it, and I'm certain Harry would too, though he being a polite, proper boy, would not presume to say such a thing."  
  
Susan sent a glare Rick's way, but then gave a brilliant smile to Harry. "Right, sorry about that, dear chap. Moving on... We were walking home, singing loudly and off-key (and here Rick did interrupt, claiming that he'd never sung off-key in his life, to which Susan tartly replied that if he truly believed that, he never listened to the memo-ball recordings she'd made of him over the years of all the times he'd gotten drunk), and this tall, dark figure approaches us and stares at us for a few seconds. Then he asks us, in this ridiculous faked voice, I mean, honestly, in the Academy we have to learn how to manipulate our voices much better than that, and you'd think that if someone's going to kidnap you, they'd at least try to disguise their voices a bit better, right? ...Well, he asked us (with that ridiculous voice) what Quidditch was and we were just staring at him like he was bonkers, because really! I mean, who doesn't know what Quidditch is? So anyway, we just start telling him, hand gestures and all, and then Donnelly gets the absolutely brilliant," and here Susan's voice radiated sarcasm in the way only someone trained throughout the course of lifetime to make their voice sound that way can do so, "idea of giving them visual aids, so he whips out his wand and he waves it around, making these illusions in the middle of the street at three in the bloody morning for the sake of a stupid wizard who can't even fake a decent voice and doesn't have enough brains to know what Quidditch is!"  
  
"You weren't too put out by it when I did it. In fact, I seem to remember you helping out a bit with the more mobile parts of the illusion," Rick muttered rebelliously. Susan hushed him.   
  
"Now, I know what you're thinking: how could we not know that the person was a Death Eater? Well, to be perfectly honest, we'd neither of us ever seen a Death Eater before, or even heard of what one looked like. Mind you, we'll not ever have that problem again, but at the time we were bloody drunk and pretty out of it, if you can see this whole stupid mess from our perspectives. So we were just talking Quidditch to the Death Eater, innocent as you please as we cast our illusions, which were pretty damn good (Excuse the language, please, but we're proud of our illusory skills! We graduated top in our class for that subject!), when he motioned to some shadows and they all just jumped at us and then we were Stunned and that's really the last thing I remember. We woke up in this miserable excuse for a dungeon, because really, it doesn't have any spiders or rats or anything like that! No proper dramatic hell at all! Obviously these Death Eaters and that Moldywarts guy (Harry had to choke down a laugh at that one. He'd heard Voldemort's name being spoken with hatred, fear, anger, adoration, respect, derision, and almost every other emotion imaginable; never before had he heard it spoken with complete and utter disrespect and disregard, mixed in with a healthy dose of impetuousness and mockery) everyone seems to be so terrified of have never heard of the proper way to keep kidnapped persons! And we've been here for around three days now, with no visitors or guests to speak of, excepting you of course, dear lad!"  
  
Susan grinned again, her smile irrepressibly cheeky and bright. It invited Harry to share in their experiences, and helplessly he began to laugh.   
  
"There's the spirit, bucko! You've got to laugh at all the misfortunes in your life, else you go mad angsting over it all!" Rick enthused and patted Harry's back gently.  
  
"Donnelly has gotten at least one thing right in his whole miserable career," Susan agreed. She chuckled as well, and winked at Harry. "Now, answer honestly: What do you think of my story-telling abilities? Donnelly thinks I'm utterly hopeless at it!"  
  
Harry chuckled and calmed his breathing. "It's certainly... different." And it had been. Different, but very engaging and Susan's voice had been incredibly expressive, communicating her complete derision and disgust of all things Death Eater or 'Moldywarts'. The brief interruptions of Rick had only added to the storytelling experience and Harry realized that the duo were well rehearsed in working together, to the point where their interaction didn't seem conscious anymore.   
  
"Yes, yes, everyone says that. But is it good?" Susan asked anxiously, her face looking at Harry earnestly.  
  
"It was good," Harry replied, putting the same emphasis on the same word. "Tell me, why don't you guys get out of here?"  
  
For the first time, Rick and Susan looked despondent. "Stupid Death Eaters stole our wands! And besides, there's this spell holding us to the cell; we can't budge from it. Something one of the main Death Eaters laid on us... gloated for hours he did, until Sleighly spat on him." Rick brightened up as he recalled that particular scene, but then his mood soured again. "And there're Anti-Apparation wards everywhere, so we can't just zoom out of here. Ah well, we'll figure out a way, won't we Sleighly?"  
  
And Rick grinned bravely down at Susan. She smiled back up at him, her eyes glinting oddly. "Of course, Donnelly. Don't we always?"  
  
Harry realized then that the jovial act the odd duo had put on for him was just an act, one that was deeply ingrained in them to be sure, but still not real. He supposed that since they were actors, they would be too used to acting to do anything else most of the time, even in desperate situations. He admired how brave they were, how they mocked everything they could. And how they leaned on each other for support.   
  
"So no one's been here to talk to you for the last three days except for the Death Eater?"   
  
Susan shrugged. "Yup. We didn't get lonely though. When we got sick and tired of talking to each other, we just talked to the voices in our heads! Very stimulating conversations." She nodded solemnly, assuming an air of knowledge.  
  
Harry bit his lip. "I'm going to try to get out of here. Do you know how to break the binding spell? I figure we could get out of the Anti-Apparation range and get to Hogsmeade, then over to Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore's probably looking for me right now, and he'd let you guys stay at Hogwarts for a bit I'm sure."  
  
Susan and Rick looked excited. "Hogwarts? Really? Neither of us got to go there; we're both latecomers to the whole 'magic' thing. We're what are known as late bloomers among the magical community. It takes us a bit longer to show our magical talent and until we do, we're categorized as Squibs. When our magic finally does make its appearance, we're sent off to magic schools of the intensified kind so we can catch up to all you normal magic-makers. We've both been dreaming about seeing Hogwarts for forever! And meeting Albus Dumbledore! Wow!"  
  
Harry laughed slightly at Susan's excited monologue. "Yes, you'll get to see Professor Dumbledore. You'll really like him, he's a great guy."  
  
Rick shook his head lamentably though. "Sorry Harry, but we've already tried every way we knew how to get out of this cell. We just can't though... Merlin knows we've picked the lock so many times, we just can't seem to get over the threshold of the door. You go on without us though; you can go for help and then come back for us, huh?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I wouldn't make it far. I'm exhausted as it is, and I wouldn't be able to run to the nearest person for help. And I can't Apparate."  
  
Susan looked sharply at him, keen eyes observing his trembling muscles and the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. "What happened to you Harry?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I've been hit with a few Crucioes today, and then I got this," he held up his hand, letting the light shine through the hole that was now in it.   
  
Rick paled, then hissed, "Bastards. Those stupid, bigoted, hateful bastards!"   
  
Susan reached out and took Harry's hand. With gentle fingers, she massaged the area around the hole. "Does it still hurt very much?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "No. Morpheus put me under Crucio first. Then he did this. It deadened my nerves, I think, because I barely felt it when it went in and then I didn't feel it at all afterwards."  
  
"It's not so bad Donnelly," Susan murmured absently. "But if this is a sign of things to come for Harry here, he should really get going. Start picking the lock, will you?"  
  
Rick growled assent and stalked over to the cell door. He pulled out a thin metal file from... somewhere and began to play around with the strange locking mechanism on the cell door.  
  
Just as it clicked open, Harry turned to face Susan, white-faced. "Please, I really won't make it out there alone. Won't you try again to break the binding spell? I'll need someone to Apparate me to Hogsmeade, and I don't want to leave you guys here. I don't know what Voldemort will do to you if he finds out you helped me escape."  
  
Susan smiled gently at him. "We can try, Harry, but I don't think it'll work."  
  
"I need help to stand anyway. You can see if you can help me over the threshold and if you can't then I guess we're all stuck here," Harry said, sounding reasonable. In truth, he was a bit afraid of being alone. For the last five days or so, he'd not seen anyone except for himself. Then all of a sudden he was dragged by the odd Morpheus Lestrange for a torture session, threatened by Lucius Malfoy, had a spell cast on him by Voldemort, and had met the interesting pair known as Rick Donnelly and Susan Sleighly. It was almost overwhelming, but then, Harry'd had all too much experience in the overwhelming.  
  
"Hurry up you two, y'never know when a Death Eater's coming your way," Rick urged from his post at the door.   
  
Susan grinned brightly at Harry, the brilliant smile contaminated by the slight tinge of sadness in it. "Come along then, lad, on your feet. If we're to be escaping this sad excuse for a hellhole, we'd better hurry, don't you think?" She supported Harry's weak legs and together, they tottered over to the open door and Rick.   
  
"What's this?" Rick looked curiously at their figures, huddled together.   
  
"We're making a break for it Donnelly. Can't leave young Harry on his lonesome, who knows what trouble he'd get into? Not that I think you're the trouble-making sort, Harry lad. Just that anyone could fall into a nest of problems with old Moldywarts and his Flatulence Farters around."  
  
"I like that, Sleighly. Quite inventive, it is. I heartily approve," Rick said, nodding solemnly though his eyes twinkled suspiciously with laughter.  
  
"Like I depend solely on your approval," Susan snorted indignantly and stuck her nose snootily up in the air. She did, however, seem to glow brighter at his words.  
  
"Right then, so this is going to be a joint escape attempt?" Rick looped his arm through Harry's free one. "That's jolly well fine with me! Come on, kids, lets get a move one, I don't think any of us fancies a longer stay in this stinky place... why, all the Farters will start to poison the air, don't you agree?"  
  
"Whole-heartedly, Donnelly. Let's go then."   
  
And arm in arm, the trio stepped across the doorway... only to have Susan and Rick slammed back inside the cell. Harry was left, standing on severely weak legs, looking at them hopelessly.   
  
"Sorry Harry, I guess the Binding spell didn't just wear off," Susan smiled at Harry comfortingly. "It'll be all right, lad, buck up! All you've got to do is get out of this place, won't take you too long."  
  
"I won't leave without you guys!" Harry protested hotly. "Voldemort will hurt you, I just know it! You've got to come with me now, or else none of us leave at all."  
  
Rick frowned. "Don't be stubborn Harry. You've got a chance to escape, make good on it! Sleighly and I will be fine, we've been in... well, not worse situations, and certainly not ones of equivalent danger, but we've still grown accustomed to being imprisoned. We'll be fine, you go along now."  
  
Harry frowned, his pale face showing stern resolve. "I'm not leaving you and you can't make me leave you. Now come on, we're going to leave this place even if it takes a hundred attempts to break through the binding spell."  
  
Susan sighed and turned to her partner. "I don't think we'll be able to convince him, Donnelly. May as well just go along with what he thinks we should do, hmm? I think it's the best option here."  
  
Rick sighed and looked down at Susan. "I suppose so, Sleighly. All right then, on three! One..."  
  
"Two..."  
  
"Three!" And they charged at the doorway's invisible barrier. Harry watched as they rebounded and landed with slight oomph's on the stone floor.   
  
After the twenty or so repeats of the scene, he sat down, and watched as they ran at the barrier again and again.   
  
"Aren't you getting tired of waiting for us Harry? Maybe you should go on, we'll catch up," Susan suggested helpfully from her uncomfortable spot on the ground.   
  
Harry narrowed his eyes and scowled at her. "I don't think so. C'mon, we're almost there!"  
  
"You're not the one getting banged up," Rick groused, but nonetheless stood again, offering a callused hand to Susan. She took it and they readied themselves for the fling at the invisible wall again.  
  
Harry sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing them wearily. It had been a long day so far, and was only getting worse. When he opened them again, he gasped in shock. The air around Rick and Susan was glowing iridescently. The glow was actually insubstantial ropes, wrapped many times around their bodies and then connected to the cell's far wall. He looked at it, dumb with wonder.   
  
He stood up and walked towards them, ignoring their apprehensive looks at his sudden spellbound state. "Don't... move..." he whispered and reaching behind Rick with a sweeping move disconnected the strands from the walls. When the strands were severed from the wall, they just disappeared into thin air. "Rick, try again to go over the threshold. Without Susan this time."  
  
Rick gave him a doubtful look, but complied and shouted with glee when he actually made it across.  
  
"Hey!" Susan shouted indignantly. "What about me, Harry? I thought you liked me loads better than that lout!"  
  
"Oh, I do," Harry assured her innocently. "I wasn't sure if what I did would work, or hurt, or whatever, so I practiced it out on Rick first. Now I know it's safe for you too."  
  
Susan beamed happily at the appeasing words and ignored the gruesome faces Rick was making at her from his position outside of the cell. "Hurry up and free me too, Harry. We can figure out how you did it later, right?"  
  
"Mmmhmm," Harry agreed as he gently chewed his lip and tried to figure out the exact place that all the strands collected against Susan. With another sudden sweeping motion, he disconnected the invisible strings holding her in place. "Now try, Susan."  
  
Susan strutted across the now non-existent barrier, giving Rick a challenging look that screamed, "Aren't I good? You don't have to admit it; everyone knows."  
  
Rick just smirked, a smirk that replied smugly, "Yes, but you needed a kid to help you out, and anyway, I was out first, which makes me so much better than you."  
  
It was amazing how telling a single facial expression could be. Before they could get as low as grimacing, Harry distracted them. "Don't you think we should be going now?"  
  
"Harry's right, let's get going Donnelly," Susan grabbed one of Harry's arms and supported him, while Rick grabbed the other and together the three of them walked very quickly down the hallways, searching for the way out.   
  
It took them a few minutes to find a door out of the dungeons that they were currently in, and longer still to find stairs going down. But they did find everything they needed to and, within a half hour or so, were standing in front of an open door leading to the outside world.   
  
"Ah, feel the breeze Sleighly?" Rick leaned out slightly and indeed, a wind rustled his hair. Susan leaned out too and sighed.  
  
"It feels so good Donnelly. Let's get going, huh?"   
  
As one, they moved to exit their prison. Only this time, Harry was rebounded back inside.  
  
"No," he whispered. He threw himself at his invisible boundary, fists beating ineffectually at it. "No! No, no, no, no, no, NO!"  
  
And suddenly, Susan's strong arms were wrapped around him and the scent of her shampoo drifted across his face. "Harry! Calm down, lad, calm down. You broke the binding spell on us; you can break it on yourself too. Just. Calm. Down."  
  
"You don't understand, Susan, I can't see the lines! I can't break this spell, I can't see it to break it!" Harry knew, somewhere deep inside that his hysteria wasn't helping anything, but he couldn't fight it back It had been bubbling up ever since he'd been captured five days ago, and now it had reached its culmination. He couldn't keep it back anymore.  
  
And suddenly, it was just... gone. Harry knew, with a sudden still certainty, that he wouldn't be leaving this place anytime soon. Voldemort himself had placed a Binding spell on him; it would not wear off quickly, if at all. "You have to go. Susan, Rick, you have to go now! They'll know by now that we've escaped, and they can't catch all of us, don't you see? They can't. You've got to get to Hogwarts, and tell Dumbledore where I am, and tell all my friends not to worry about me. You have to!"  
  
But Rick was shaking his head slowly, grim resolution in his face. And Susan was looking at him bravely, her smile brilliantly glowing. "We're not leaving you, lad, not when we've already seen what they'll do to you. We've got to at least try to save you. So come on, buck up, and try to break the bloody spell already!"  
  
Harry laughed helplessly at they're combined words. They couldn't understand; Voldemort had cast this spell. It wasn't possible to break it just like that... He needed more power, more training.   
  
He tried, desperately, to tell them that, but they wouldn't listen. They just wouldn't stop encouraging him and in the middle of one of their encouragements, they heard the dreaded voice whisper behind them all, "Stupefy."   
  
And then all any of them knew was darkness.  
  
***  
  
Harry woke to dim green lights. And the horrific sight of seeing Susan lying prostrated in front of Voldemort's feet, Rick being held barely from her side by three Death Eaters. He groaned, finally feeling the pain of his hand and that of all the Crucioes he'd endured that day.  
  
Voldemort's sharp eyes had been staring at him since the beginning of his awakening. "So, finally decided to join us have you young Potter?"  
  
"No way," Harry distantly heard Rick mutter to himself. "No way is that Harry Potter. Can't be. Just can't."  
  
Harry sent a vague, apologetic look his way. Then he sent a more concerned one to Susan, who wasn't moving at all.   
  
Voldemort noticed where he was looking and laughed nastily. "Yes, that spit fire woke before the rest of you and delighted in insulting me and my loyal followers. She was duly punished, of course."  
  
Harry glared at him. "Why are they here anyway, Voldemort? What do you gain from having them here? Everyone knows that you want to kill me. Get it over with, already, and stop prolonging the torture."  
  
"Ah, but young Potter, I no longer wish to kill you. No, I have other uses for you and your not inconsiderable power. And these two," Voldemort gestured negligently at Rick and Susan, "were just brought here to test you, and also to be used as an example."   
  
A sick feeling grew in the bottom of Harry's stomach. He didn't know for sure what Voldemort spoke of, but he could guess easily. Rick and Susan were going to be tortured horribly in front of him, just to show him what could happen to him, if he didn't follow the rules to Voldemort's liking.   
  
Voldemort seemed to be able to trace the direction of Harry's thoughts, because he smirked and said, "I see you've comprehended my meaning, young Potter. Now, watch," and he leveled his wand at Susan and whispered "Crucio."  
  
Susan screamed.   
  
It was a sound unlike anything Harry had ever heard, full of rage and pain and agony, deep and primal and magnified by a trained singer's voice a thousandfold. It rang down in his bones, reverberating them, rattling them, causing his teeth to clatter. It wrenched something deep inside of him. It was the sound of hurting.  
  
Everything was reduced to that scream, that sound. He didn't hear Rick's desperate shouts, or the Death Eaters' desperate attempts to keep him from Susan. He didn't notice Voldemort's low throaty chuckle of pleasure. All he knew, in that horribly, clarified moment, was that scream.  
  
And then the scream stopped.  
  
Susan breathed raggedly, supporting herself on her arms and knees, her hair a dark curtain hiding her face from the world. She looked up suddenly, her fierce, dark eyes burning into Voldemort's. "Need to work on the power behind it, Moldywarts my boy. It's lacking a bit of oomph." Her voice was uneven, probably because of her hitched breathing, but it was magnificently defiant and alive. Just like her.   
  
"You okay there Sleighly?" Rick's voice was panicked, barely held in control.  
  
"Yeah Donnelly. I'm fine. Just... Peachy," and Susan coughed, a deep hacking cough. She spat out a large wad of something that looked dark and lumpy. "Hah! Never thought it was actually possible to cough up a lung," she muttered to herself.   
  
"Well, now that I've given you a moment's respite, I think it's time for you to get reacquainted with pain. Crucio."  
  
And the scream came back again.   
  
When finally it had stopped, Susan lay, curled in a ball, coughing bone-shaking coughs.   
  
Again, Rick's desperate voice floated above Voldemort's chuckles and those of the Death Eaters. "Sleighly! Susan! You okay over there?"  
  
And Susan responded in a voice that, though it was hoarse, was filled with some indefinable emotion that seemed to hold within it everything that love represented, and comfort and hope too. "Yeah. I'm just fine, Donnelly. And don't you forget it!"  
Quieter, so only Harry and the nearby Death Eaters could hear her, she said, "Don't tell him how bad it is, Harry. It would only hurt him."   
  
With great difficulty Harry nodded.   
  
And then Voldemort's whispered Crucio came again, and so did the never-ending scream...   
  
This time Rick really did break from the Death Eaters' grip and charged straight at Voldemort, who looked at him with a grim amusement. He lifted his attention from Susan for a brief second and flicked his wand at the furious man, saying casually, "Avada Kedavra."   
  
The green light shot out from the end of his wand and impacted on Rick's chest. The slight man fell back, face slack with shock.  
  
"Donnelly?" Susan's weak voice whispered the name as a question. Harry closed his eyes to ward off the heart breaking sadness of that question.   
  
"Donnelly? Rick? Rick?! No!" Susan's voice held all the grief that could ever be spoken in the world, all the sorrow and pain that it was possible to feel. "Rick, please no. Please, we lived all those years, just for this time when we were free! You can't leave me, not now! No, not you, Rick don't leave me!"  
  
Harry couldn't disrespect that sadness any longer. He opened his eyes and looked at them, tears springing to his eyes but not falling. Susan was hunched over Rick's still body, her tears like rain on his open face. She was silent for a moment before she finally spoke.  
  
"You bastard," she hissed at Voldemort venomously, her face a mask of rage as she lifted it from Rick's face. "You murderous bastard!" Now it was she who launched herself at the Dark Lord, hoping to cause his death, or at least give him a grievous injury, with the last of her life.   
  
But it was not to be. Voldemort flicked his wand at her again and repeated, as he had only seconds before, "Avada Kedavra."  
  
And Susan Sleighly died, steps away from Voldemort, lying next to her other.   
  
The world became still and chaotic all at once and Harry felt his breath die in his mouth, filling it with a decayed taste. His eyes were dry and he blinked to lubricate them. They ached.   
  
Susan. Rick. God... Susan and RICK. SUSAN and RICK. GOD.   
  
There was a chasm in him, a throbbing difference that ate his insides, leaving him empty, hollowed. He heard, distantly, someone saying in a voice that wasn't at all steady and wasn't at all calm and certainly wasn't happy, but was entirely rageful and sorrowful and everything that made him hurt, and that voice said so angrily and painfully, "Why?"  
  
It was a pathetic question and only laughter greeted it. Harry shook his head at that and looked to see who had spoken, but then realized that the only person who could ever have done that in a room full of Death Eaters was him, and he hadn't remembered saying anything or even being able to speak and he wondered, distantly to himself, what was going on...   
  
That chasm engulfed him, dark and chillingly cold, yet still more inviting than... this. Harry fell into it willingly.  
  
  
When he woke, it was to the face of Lucius Malfoy. Who looked entirely too happy for anything good to be planned for him.   
  
That suspicion was only confirmed when Lucius silently held up a brown-black whip, immaculately cleaned, and snapped it expertly close to Harry. He tried to fight to get away from the madman's presence, but his whole body was tied together. He couldn't even stand without leaning on the wall.   
  
The first lash caught him on his shoulder, the second on his chest. They hurt less than he'd thought they would, but then, he was probably in shock. And then he wondered just why he'd be in shock and he remembered, and then he wondered why he'd forgotten in the first place, and then what he'd forgotten and in the midst of it all, the whip came down again. Again. And again and again and again and again and again until he couldn't stand it and his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell to the floor, blood staining his clothes and the shoes of Lucius Malfoy. 


	2. Flatulence Farter, Thy Name be Snape

A/N: Jumping ahead by about four weeks here. Enjoy. Oh, and disclaimer still stands. As if you didn't know. Hmph. Rub it in, why don't'cha...  
  
Chapter Two A: Flatulence Farter, Thy Name Be Snape  
  
Footsteps woke him.   
  
He groaned, trying to roll over and wake up, only to find that he couldn't. His stupid leg hurt too much.  
  
What happened this time, Harry Potter thought to himself resignedly. What did Malfoy Senior do? I think I can remember... a sledgehammer. Yes, that's probably it. Luc-the-rat-bastard had taken a bloody sledgehammer to his leg. And pretty much shattered the bone.   
  
Harry sighed and looked down at his throbbing immobile leg. It was twisted in a direction that was definitely not healthy, or normal. It was covered in blood, long gashes of it running from numerous cuts. It was bruised a dark purple black. Harry winced at the sight.  
  
"Well, it always looks worse than it really is," he said optimistically to himself.   
  
"Unless it really is as bad as it looks," and oddly familiar voice said from outside of his cell's bars.   
  
Harry lifted his gaze languorously from his contemplation of his obviously broken leg. The man standing there was a Flatulence Farter (Death Eater), that much was for certain. He wore the pure black and had the sinister appearances down perfectly. Of course, who else but Flatulence Farters and ol' Moldywarts would be here anyway?  
  
"'Ello, m'friend. Have you come to whisk me away to Luc-dear's, Moldywarts' or Morpheus' tonight? Gimme a few minutes and you won't have to carry me around," Harry said with a cheerily false voice. "I've got the minor problem of a shattered leg to take care of. Have a little patience, it'll pay off in the long run."  
  
He didn't really expect the tactic to work, because it never had before when a Flatulence Farter was sent to take him to his next torture session. He was always dragged painfully behind, despite multiple injuries including broken bones. It never hurt to try though, unless you counted those times the Flatulence Farters had gotten irritated at his voice and had started to kick his ribs... that hadn't been pleasant.  
  
"Very well," the voice (why was it so ruddy familiar?!) said, its sinister huskiness failing to intimidate Harry in any way. He'd gotten too used to Moldywarts, who was truly a master of the threatening voice.  
  
"Thanks old bean," Harry muttered mockingly. In the short time he'd known Donnelly and Sleighly, they'd really rubbed off on him. Every time he spoke or acted, he thought, what would they do? And the words would flow out of his mouth, the actions becoming inadvertent but inherently mocking. He enjoyed having bits and pieces of his deceased friends' personalities in him. It made them seem still alive, somehow, like Moldywarts hadn't cruelly murdered them both.  
  
Sighing to himself, he held a hand over his shattered leg and concentrated. There wasn't really any other word for it, just a very deep looking into, an intense mental vision. He pulled the fragments of his bone together, somehow, and melded them together haphazardly. He couldn't do a particularly good job on it, for one because he didn't know what he was doing in the slightest and for another, because he didn't have enough magical reserves to finish it up; the concussion yesterday had depleted the rest of it.   
  
As it was, his leg was now unbroken, though it still ached; Harry was sure that he'd messed up with some of the healing. It was an amazing relief, so much better than when it was shattered in a million different shards and throbbed dully with deep agony. It would allow him to walk, just not all that comfortably.   
  
Sighing regrettably, he tore a strip off of his shirt and called out to the Flatulence Farter, "Do you see a long piece of wood out there? I think I may need one to brace my leg."  
  
The Flatulence Farter sighed exasperatedly (it was such a familiar(!) sigh) and moved around for a few seconds, supposedly looking for the requested piece of wood. Finally, a piece was thrown in through the bars and Harry muttered his thanks.   
  
If he were feeling more like himself, he would've also given a magnificent insult to the guy. He was a bit preoccupied though, dealing with the temporary splint of his leg.  
  
He aligned the wood with his leg then tied it in place with the ripped strip of his shirt, knotting it firmly. He sighed and stood. "All right, m'friend. Let's shake a leg, huh? Wouldn't want to keep what's-his-face waiting."  
  
"Lord Voldemort," the Flatulence Farter corrected tersely and grabbed Harry's upper arm to drag him along more effectively, though he didn't walk too fast out of a strange consideration for Harry's still messed up leg. He unintentionally dug his long fingers into newly made bruises, yet Harry didn't flinch. He was accustomed to the slighter forms of pain, and was becoming used to the more major ones (though he doubted he'd ever really get used to Crucio). "How did you heal your leg without your wand?"  
  
The unexpected question startled Harry and he blinked up at his captor, momentarily taken aback. "I apparently have a talent for focused wandless magic. Anyone can do it, really, but it takes years of learning for most and they never really progress past an 'Accio'. I... bypassed the Accio and went straight to breaking Binding curses. Of course, those didn't help the people I broke out much; they're dead anyway."  
  
Harry inwardly winced at his bitter tone. He didn't mean to sound so bad, yet... Sleighly and Donnelly were dead. And it was mostly his fault. Not all, since Moldywarts had been the one with the wand throwing the curses around. But they'd stayed behind because of him. Had gotten caught because of him.   
  
Harry'd known that he would be tortured and killed. Sleighly and Donnelly would probably have only been ransomed... until they'd tried to escape with him. And then Moldywarts didn't even have the guts to kill Harry, give him what he deserved.   
  
The Flatulence Farter was silent for the rest of the journey. He walked with brisk steps, but kept them small to accommodate for Harry's shorter legs and his broken one.  
  
With a dramatic arm movement, the Flatulence Farter knocked on the door leading into Voldemort's presence. He looked down at Harry for a moment, as if expecting something. More specifically, he was looking at Harry's scar.  
  
"It still hurts," Harry informed him softly, wry grin on his lips. "It's just barely noticeable now. It's really nothing compared to what Malfoy usually gives me, not to mention Moldywarts and Morpheus. Still stings, but more like an annoyance than anything else. I hardly even notice it anymore, really."  
  
As they waited for long moments for the door to open, Harry studied his guard. The man was tall, with long, thin, strong fingers and a distantly familiar voice. He was sure that he'd heard it before, at least once. But the memories of times before being in Moldywarts putrid possession were deeply buried and almost dead.  
  
His face was still a mystery, hidden as it was beneath a dark hood.   
  
Harry studied the way the Flatulence Farter held himself, how he stood. Something /tugged/ in his mind. Something...  
  
The door opened and a gloved hand beckoned them in. The Flatulence Farter swept in, dramatic robes swirling around him. Harry followed, looking more than slightly pathetic and yet oddly defiant at the same time. They both walked to Moldywarts feet, the Flatulence Farter kneeling down to his knees and bowing his head in a gesture of deep respect. Harry just smirked.  
  
"Ah, my two favorites," Moldywarts hissed in deep satisfaction. "And, as well, your most hated adversary, Potter. Have you realized yet that my loyal Death Eater is none other than your most hated Potions teacher: Severus Snape."  
  
Harry blinked, then laughed delightedly. To the uninformed, his laugh was that of a young child's: young, innocent, guileless and free. To one who listened closely and carefully, s/he would hear the darker overtones, the harshness of that laugh.  
  
"Of course! I knew that I knew you from somewhere, Professor Snape-or do I call you Severus now that we are no longer on school grounds? Maybe Mr. Snape is what you'd prefer. Thanks so much for bringing him down here, Moldywarts my friend, I was having an absolutely horrible time trying to figure out my Potions homework. And you bring my teacher right to me! How thoughtful of you." Harry took a step forward, seeming not to notice the sudden jarring of his still stiff leg, and pulled the hood of Severus Snape down. A familiar face, with familiar black eyes, stared at him.  
  
That familiar face looked, startled, at him. Snape had noticed Harry's wild inflection, had detected his odd breathing patterns. He knew that there was something going on inside of Harry, something more than shock. Voldemort hadn't.   
  
Voldemort smiled grimly at the duo, his lips a twisted caricature of amusement. "Indeed he is your Potions Master. But that is not what he will be doing while he is here. No, his job here will be to develop and test new potions. Chemical forms of the Crucio, the Imperio and assorted others. Because the hatred that exists between you two is legendary, I have decided to allow my loyal servant some fun. You will be his test subject, completely at his mercy. Whether or not he decides to give you the antidote for whatever poison he has come up with lately is completely up to him, as is how much he will make you suffer each and every time. I trust you two will enjoy this time together. As I have some other business to conduct right now, I'll let Morpheus have you, Potter, after only one curse." With the slight warning, Harry was hit with Crucio.  
  
He lay on his back, staring up at the fathomless ceiling. It was hard to breathe, but then anything that required effort right now would be hard. He gasped in shallow breaths that barely fed oxygen to his blood cells and wondered vaguely when his vision would start to black out. He refrained from screaming, but only because the last Crucio cast on him had been fifteen hours earlier and his body wasn't really recovered, but recovered enough to deal with the new influx of pain.   
  
It's odd that Moldwarts' curse isn't any stronger than Malfoy Senior's. Is it because they both hate me with an equal intensity? It can't be because they have the same level of power - I don't think Malfoy would've lived to see Malfoy Junior being born if that were true. Maybe the Crucio always feels the same way? But no, Morpheus' is more delicate and the after effects last longer. Strange...  
  
Harry'd gotten used to thinking to himself during these little sessions, trying vainly to ignore his extreme pain. It was a retreat into his mind that seldom truly worked, but served as a desperately needed distraction very well.   
  
After a breath of time that could've been a millennia and Harry wouldn't have noticed, the curse was lifted. From outside of the cocoon-like haze Harry had built around himself, he heard Voldemort say, in his horrible voice, "Take him to Morpheus, Severus. You may watch the torture if you wish. After Morpheus is done, Potter is given half an hour to recover. After that, you may take him for the tests. Lucius is not to go near him for at least two weeks, and you will make sure that that is enforced. You will guard Potter's cell during the night to make sure that Lucius doesn't try to sneak in a visit, as his last one was a bit extreme. And too easily healed."  
  
"Very well, my Lord," Snape answered, his voice softly obedient. Thinly muscled arms picked Harry's limp form up and carried the slight (even more so after his horrible summer with the Dursleys and his subsequent imprisonment) boy out of the room.   
  
Once out of the stifling room, Harry moved slightly. "Put me down, Snape. I want to walk. I feel slimy touching you." His words were weak, but the tone behind them fierce. Harry had had to live these past few weeks completely independent and wasn't going to start letting anyone touch him without fighting it to the extreme, even if the touch was to help him.   
  
Snape ignored the command and kept on walking. Harry bit him.  
  
"We really must start feeding you more Potter, if you're going to resort to cannibalism." Snape's voice was wryly amused, though Harry's teeth had sunk in deeply and drawn blood.  
  
Harry spit to the side. "Would you believe that you taste better than the crap they call meals? Now put me down."   
  
"Or what Potter? You'll bite me again? You know how well that works."  
  
"I'll fight you all the way to Morpheus'. It won't be pleasant for you, believe me."  
  
The only answer he got was a tightening grip and a reminding hand on his bad leg. He subsided, but glowered up at Snape petulantly, much as a young child would. Only he hadn't been a young child since he was six and Uncle Vernon had... Well, that was a lifetime ago and it did no good dwelling on it now.   
  
They walked in silence for a few minutes, neither one acknowledging the others' presence, when Harry abruptly noticed that they were headed in the entirely wrong direction.   
  
"What's going on? Are you getting me out of here now?" Despite himself, Harry's voice sounded just a bit excited.  
  
Snape sent a scornful look his way, then looked slightly embarrassed. "Of course not! I'm just... well, I'm sort of... lost."  
  
Harry blinked incredulously. "You're kidding. No, you're not. Well, much as it pains me to direct you to my torturer's chambers, his presence is vastly more preferable to yours. Turn left here."   
  
They finally made it to Morpheus' torture room, after many misadventures and snarky comments (the misadventures due to Snape's inability to take directions and the snarky comments being said equally between them). Before they could knock on the door, it opened and Morpheus' head poked out.   
  
"Little Raven, you're late. We will have to move faster than usual to make up for lost time. How's your hand?" His voice was unusually focused, but Harry had learned to take his tormentor's oddities in stride.  
  
"It's still got a hole in it. Remember, you poke that iron thingy in it just about ever time I see you." Harry's voice wasn't sarcastic, despite its mean words. It didn't give off any emotion at all, in fact.   
  
Neither of them noticed Snape's startled look at Harry's hand at those words, or his slight blanching at the sight of the still unhealed hole in the middle of it.   
  
"It's called 'maintenance' little Raven. It's to make sure that it doesn't heal naturally, or with your help."  
  
"Haven't we already had this conversation? I believe the second time you ran that thing through my hand?"  
  
"Yes, I believe we did. You can put him down on the table, Severus, he hasn't tried to get away from me since the seventh session we've had together. He decided to not exactly cooperate, but to not fight as much as he would for Lucius. In return, I try not to curse him very much. It's an odd arrangement, but we both enjoy it," Morpheus said to Snape and Snape complied.   
  
Harry was laid on the table, wincing at the impact to his leg. He did notice that Snape was trying to be a bit gentle, although staying inconspicuous. Snape started to back out of the way, but Morpheus blocked his path.  
  
"Stay a bit, Severus, I'd like to know what's going on in the wizarding world. It's been a while since I've been allowed into it," Morpheus said friendlily while he went to retrieve the iron rod from the cupboard. He stepped over to Harry's prone form and held the boy's hand down, spread-eagling the fingers.  
  
Snape started to talk, in a low disjointed voice, of current events. He seemed sickeningly mesmerized by what Morpheus was doing to Harry.   
  
Harry himself was completely focused on Morpheus' eyes, taking in the intent way they seemed to look at Harry's hand and the iron rod. Looking at the grim satisfaction they held when the iron rod was protruding from Harry's hand, filling in the gaping space left by the hole that had yet to heal since the first time it had been made.  
  
"You don't really enjoy seeing people in pain, do you Morpheus? It's more when you're causing it that you're happy."  
  
Morpheus nodded, not lifting his face from its concentrated position. "Of course. You know this, little Raven, and soon you will feel it too."  
  
"I wouldn't bet on it. I don't really relish the idea of making others writhe in agony."  
  
Morpheus looked up at that. "Are you saying you never even fantasized of doing to Lucius what he does to you? Of casting Crucio on my Lord? I don't believe that."   
  
"You know me, Morpheus. I might fantasize about it, but I'd never do it. I'd kill them in a heartbeat, but I'd never cast Crucio on them, or take a sledgehammer to their leg."  
  
"No, you wouldn't. You're far too... compassionate. That is one quality that is quickly beaten out of you in many pureblood families. You must be ruthless to get what is needed for the furtherance of your family. We all learn very young that lesson... Yes, we do." Morpheus sounded slightly mournful as he spoke, but didn't pause in his ministrations. Snape had long been forgotten by now.   
  
"Compassion isn't something that can be beaten out of you," Harry argued vehemently. "Merlin knows my Uncle tried enough times when I was younger. It can be forced into the background, changed and distorted until no one can even begin to recognize it... but it's still there. It never goes away. It'll always be a part of you, ingrained into your heart and mind and soul. And no matter how many times you try to ignore it, there'll always be an echo of it in your mind, urging you to go out and help someone, to ease suffering and despair."  
  
"That's just your view of compassion, little Raven. But for every person alive, there is another view, another version of what compassion is. Just because you think of it as a noble thing, does not mean that others do as well. While it is true that compassion exists with everyone, it's not true that everyone has the same kind. Rather, everyone has a unique kind, one only they possess. So what is considered as compassion to you could also be considered as cruelty by another." Morpheus slowly and laboriously traced a simple, elegant design onto Harry's arm with a razor blade, watching intently as the blood welled and encased Harry's arm slowly, tiny dots slowly becoming larger and larger.   
  
"You're looking at it from the person who is doing the action's point of view," Harry pointed out reasonably. "When really, everything should be looked at from the person-who-is-being-affected's point of view. They are the ones who must endure the action, after all, and so they are the ones who should have the right to define what compassion is."  
  
"Yes, I see your point Raven. However, do you really think the person who is doing the action takes this into account when he or she commits the action? Rarely they think of themselves in the other's position and contemplate what their definition of compassion would be at that instant. I think that is the real reason why many horrendous things have occurred over the centuries and also why revenge has been born time and again, despite repeated examples that it simply does no good. But you must also see it from the person who does the action, because the fact that they are committing an act that not many would consider as compassionate means that they hold an alternate point of view and have more information about the situation, which also means that they may, in truth, act compassionately in the truest sense of the word. It is all a matter of how much information a person has, and how far that person will go to make sure that the information is used in a way that will either benefit him, or humanity, or even a select group of persons. Do you see?" Morpheus drew the blade further up Harry's arm, and then looped it back down to meet the previous design he had been making. He seemed unconscious of his actions, concentrating solely on the words exchanged with the boy lying before him.   
  
"Not really. But then, it's a little hard to concentrate when you're carving designs into my skin," Harry gritted out, distantly polite.   
  
Morpheus looked at him sharply. "Are you distancing yourself from the pain Raven? I've told you not to do that; it just slows the process down even more than Lucius has already done. Honestly, I cannot comprehend why my Lord even contemplated the idea of letting him near you, at least until you're conditioned to like it... He should know Lucius is too brutish to deal with the developing stages adequately."  
  
"I somehow doubt he really cares whether or not I'm adequately conditioned," Harry said wryly, wincing slightly as he inadvertently moved his bleeding arm. "I honestly don't know why he hasn't already killed me. He's being awfully arrogant about it, you know. I mean, there are probably dozens of people looking for me right now. I could be found at any moment, and yet he still keeps me alive. It's delusional." Harry sounded baffled. He took his eyes off of the blade to look at the fluorescent-lighted ceiling.   
  
Morpheus paused in his work for a moment. "My lord has his reasons, Raven. And you'd do well not to question them... You're better off not knowing what he plans for your future."   
  
Harry looked at him, face calm. "Can it seriously be worse than this? I don't think many things could be."  
  
And the grayed, prematurely aged man looked tiredly into Harry's weary, yet still brilliant green eyes and sighed. "There are many things, Raven, that are worse than this. You haven't experienced them yet, but there are. And when you do know them, you feel as if your bones are imploding and melting to water, no longer strong enough to support you. You feel like the world is dead and so are you, only you still breathe and you can still see the life that you should have had, that you deserved to have, and it is not yours anymore. That is what is worse than what you call torture, little Raven, young one. That is Azkaban."  
  
"Was it really so horrible?"   
  
And Snape, who had been watching their verbal sparring, felt his breath catch in his throat at the infinite compassion and understanding in Harry's voice, the sheer depth and perception of it that hadn't been there before, mere months before, and was there now. He listened, awed, as Morpheus replied.   
  
"It still goes on every day for me. Every breath is death; every glimpse of the sun is a hope that died so long ago. The only thing that brings clarity to my life is when I see something so beautiful and primal and real. That is the only thing that is not Azkaban. The only thing." Morpheus' voice resounded with quiet desperation and his oh-so-steady hand shook.   
  
"Couldn't you find a new primal beauty, that is clarifyingly real? Something that isn't so evil and twisted? Couldn't you? Sirius Black doesn't deal with his years there as you do, and although you are two different men, I don't imagine that you both deal with it so dramatically differently. Isn't there any other route to take?" Harry's voice was full of gentle questioning, one that a mother would assume while talking to her youngest child.  
  
"Sirius Black had something to live for outside of Azkaban. Both myself and my Dove were in there, together, and Dove... You know what happened to Dove. If you have something to live for outside of Azkaban, something to keep breathing and fighting against the welcoming bleakness death offers for... Then you can avoid taking comfort in primal beauties. But I have nothing save them, and my Lord of course. Sirius Black always had you, and always will." In that moment, Snape could have sworn that Morpheus sounded wistful.   
  
"Did you see him at all in Azkaban?" Harry asked now, his voice slightly eager.   
  
Morpheus chuckled. "Yes, yes, he was an odd one all right. Not a bird, no, not at all... He was more canine. You could tell in the way he held himself, the way he spoke. He was strange... Never screamed as much as everyone else did. Very quiet man he was, though sometimes he would rant to the empty walls. I always ranted to my Dove. But I never liked him all that much. Too canine. The same with your father's other friend, Remus Lupin. And Pettigrew was always too cowardly to even contemplate soaring the skies. Of the whole group your father was in, only he had even the slightest chance of being a bird and that chance was very slight indeed. Now, your mother on the other hand... She was a lovely Phoenix, Raven. Utterly fiery and so very passionate. And you have inherited much of that, although you are much more polite. She had the worst mouth you're likely to ever hear on a woman. If I hadn't had my Dove I could easily have been distracted by her..." Morpheus sighed regretfully at the thought of things left undone. "It's a shame that my Lord killed them both, Raven. The Phoenix and the Crow and the Raven, a family of birds... I would have enjoyed visiting you all. I have no doubt it would have been an interesting household. Ah well, my Lord knows best after all."  
  
Harry sighed slightly. "You know I won't respond to that. Is our time up yet? I need to sleep for a bit."  
  
Morpheus glanced at a strange machine on the cupboard and frowned. "Yes, I hadn't realized we'd gone on for so long. Now, you won't be healing your arm will you?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "And ruin your hard work? No, I haven't enough magical reserves to do anything right now, and I'm too tired to focus properly. Your newest work of art is safe for the next few days or so. Would you mind sparing a cloth or something? I wouldn't want to get my clothes any bloodier than they already are."  
  
"Now that would be a hard thing to accomplish," Morpheus chuckled to himself. Indeed, Harry's clothes were bathed in blood. It was hard to tell what hadn't originally been rust red. Morpheus grabbed a long strip of material from off of one of the nearby tables. "You may use this. Don't worry about giving it back. Good day, Raven. You may take him now Severus."   
  
Snape stood quickly and walked to Harry's prone form. With careful, but not too careful, arms, he picked the boy up and lifted him gently into his arms.   
  
"You know, I can walk on my own," Harry said idly, though Snape could tell that his voice was more than mildly annoyed.   
  
Snape looked coldly down at him. "Do I look like I care? Besides, I don't want you giving yourself internal damages walking around and putting your body through unneeded stress. It could affect my potion's integrity, and that is something that is intolerable. Now shut up and let me leave in peace."  
  
Harry glared but subsided, and the unlikely duo left, Morpheus' amused gaze following their retreating forms.   
  
Snape carried Harry to his new cell, only letting his guinea pig out of his arms to open the door. Harry limped into it, then looked on amusedly as Snape locked the door.   
  
"No one really cares if I stay in my cell anymore you know," he said conversationally. "It's not a big issue. I'm bound to the castle. I couldn't leave even if the walls were toppling in on me."  
  
Snape glared meaningfully at him. "Formalities, Potter, must be observed regardless of what people may or may not mind."  
  
"Ah, that's my old professor all right." Harry sighed and hobbled to the far wall. He slid down it, his back supported by its strength. His eyes closed tiredly as his breath became more and more labored. After a few minutes of this, he opened his eyes and looked at Snape. "What are you still doing here? I thought you'd be anxious to get back to adoring Moldywarts with the rest of the Flatulence Farters."  
  
Snape looked coldly at him, though his eyes glittered distantly with amusement at Harry's nicknames for his captors. "My Lord told me to stand guard over you for the next little while, if you'll remember. And so I stand guard. Get some rest, we leave for my rooms in half an hour for the first round of tests to begin."  
  
Harry sighed. "I can't really relax with you right there, you know. Would you mind... going to the side a bit or something like that? I'm sure I'll manage to yell if Lucius suddenly comes into the room."  
  
Snape glared at him, and did not move.   
  
"Guess not," Harry groaned slightly in dismay, then doubled over in pain. "Dammit!"  
  
"What's wrong?" Snape moved closer to the cell door in alarm, hand clenching the bar tightly.   
  
Harry looked up, black hair stark against deathly white skin. His green eyes burned intensely for a moment before the flame died just a bit. "Nothing to worry about, professor, just a reminder of something that was done a while ago that I haven't had a chance to fix just yet. Nothing serious, I assure you."  
  
Snape glanced suspiciously at the boy's still form, but didn't question his words. He sighed and settled next to a wall, waiting until half an hour had gone by. It was a tense wait in which Snape pondered how the hell he was going to get the idiot Potter out of the latest mess he was in (while a little section of his mind recoiled in horror at what he'd already witnessed being done to the young-yet-old-and-still-dreadfully-skinny boy) and Harry just... rested.   
  
Not a second past the half hour mark, Snape entered Harry's cell and roughly picked the boy up. He hefted the slight weight in his arms, trying to find a comfortable position, and grunted when he couldn't.   
  
"This would be easier if you had more padding on your bones," he scolded the boy, voice reproving.  
  
"Sorry," Harry remarked with a twisted smile. "My family was never really concerned with how much I got to eat, so I pretty much starved for the ten years I was with them. I gained a bit at Hogwarts, but lost it all again when I got here... they don't care how much I eat either, so I usually only get scraps of bread and have to drink the water off of the floor. It's enough to keep me alive and I stopped feeling hungry a few days ago."  
  
Snape snorted. "Right, if you're going to feed me a sob story, at least make it a bit more believable, thanks."  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow at his disbelieving expression. Then he shrugged. "Fine, don't believe me. I don't really care, y'know? The teachers at my elementary school didn't believe me either. Neither did the neighbors. Or the one babysitter I had other than Mrs. Figg. No one believes anything I say because I'm just a little liar, isn't that right?" His tone wasn't bitter or cold, just innocently questioning. It was almost as if he'd already asked himself these questions long nights ago and had come to these conclusions.   
  
Snape's smirk disappeared and silence reigned from then on to Snape's dungeon testing room. Harry laughed helplessly when he saw it.   
  
"Merlin's teeth! Do you ever escape the dungeons Severus?"   
  
"Don't call me Severus," Snape growled irritably. He set Harry down on a stool leaning against a wall and strode with long steps over to the far wall. With his back turned to the boy, Harry couldn't see what he was doing.   
  
"Why not? It's your name. Since you aren't acting in the capacity of a teacher in this situation, I decided it would be inappropriate to call you Professor Snape and in the words of Morpheus Lestrange, torturers and torturees need to have a deep bond in order for the necessary training in pain to take place, so Mr. Snape is out. You're stuck with Severus, Severus. Or maybe Sev. How do you feel about other nicknames? I'd name you Snuggles, but you really don't seem the type. Give me time, I'll come up with something for you," Harry's voice was mocking as the immobile (because of his leg) boy stretched and strained to see what Snape was creating.   
  
Snape growled from where he stood, a low, menacing sound that didn't affect Harry in the slightest. It was just an intimidation tactic, after all, and he'd learnt all of them already from Morpheus (by way of explanation) and Lucius (by way of demonstration) and Moldywarts (by breathing). Snape had nothing on them, for the most part, though his voice got quite impressive when he was trying especially hard.   
  
The tall and dark man swung unexpectedly around and faced Harry, small glass bottle clenched tightly in his hand. "Don't call me 'Sev' Potter."  
  
Harry looked mildly surprised at the expression of pain, hatred, and sorrow reflecting from Snape's face. He hadn't expected such an extreme reaction to that particular nickname. Reminder to self: use Sev on Snape to get him unsettled. Works remarkably well, he thought.  
  
"Don't call me 'Potter', SEV."   
  
Snape glared at Harry and his flippant tone. Harry was long past the point of caring. He wasn't, however, past the point of curiousity. He looked at the glass bottle inquisitively and gentled his voice. "What's that?"  
  
Snape smiled nastily, finding a way to get back at Harry for what he'd just done. "Your first test potion. The first task my Lord has given me is to find out how to make a chemical form of the Crucio. This is the first batch of the first attempt. You will drink it."  
  
Harry looked incredulously. "Riiiiiiight, like I'd willingly let you come near me with that bottle. Stay away, psycho, or be prepared." Just in case Snape did come closer, Harry started to ready his hands and prepare his magic in a panicked attempt to get organized.   
  
"If you resist, I'll just cast Crucio on you," Snape threatened, though his voice, face and body posture lacked conviction. Harry wasn't used to reading these yet, and could only tell that neither of them wanted that to happen. He wasn't, however, about to become Snape's guinea pig.  
  
Snape could tell this, somehow, and sighed tiredly. "If you drink this, and any others that I make later on, I'll do something in return as a favor to you," he offered weakly.   
  
Harry looked at him speculatively, back resting against the cool stone wall. "You have to tell me all about my parents, Sirius and Professor Lupin, when they were young. And I do mean everything. I'll know if you leave anything important out." It seemed a fair trade to him. He'd never known anything of his personal past and here was a golden opportunity to get it out of someone who'd been there. Besides, he already knew that they would find some way to force-feed him the potion without ruining its integrity. It was easier to take it on his terms and get something he wanted out of it.   
  
Snape glowered at him and thought for a few brief seconds. In the end, it wasn't really a choice. "Fine. Drink first. I'll tell you your story," he sneered, "after." He walked dramatically over to Harry's prone form and handed the small glass bottle to him.   
  
Harry took out the little stopper at the top of the glass bottle and looked inside. He brought the object to his nose and took a sniff - smelled like crushed mint and clementine, with sickly sweet scents blending subtly in the background.   
  
His brilliant green eyes looked up at Snape's glowing black ones, not with malice, hatred or fear, but with wry understanding. "Here goes."   
  
And he drank the potion.   
  
  
It was kind of like floating, Harry thought dreamily as he drifted in a haze of yellow cloud. For a supposedly vicious poison, it really didn't hurt at all. It was strangely euphoric.  
  
That only lasted for all of two seconds. Then deep, driving pain imploded inside of his skull, mini explosions setting off within his brain. He dropped the small vial and dropped to the floor, clutching his head as if trying to protect it. When that didn't work, some ancient, animalistic instinct caused him to start slamming his head against the floor, a desperate attempt to force the pain out.   
  
"Potter!" He heard, distantly. Strong hands tried to hold him down, stop his convulsions. By now it wasn't just instinct that was causing him to jerk uncontrollably; it was an involuntary act, his brain seizuring out of control and sending spasmodic messages to all his muscles.   
  
The hands succeeded in holding him down, and then a firm weight settled on his upper chest, holding him immobile. His wildly shaking head was stilled with hands, and his mouth pried open. A liquid spilled into it and threatened to choke him. He swallowed quickly, not registering the taste as pain continued to attack.   
  
Within seconds, he was out cold.   
  
"Well, that was certainly unexpected," Severus Snape said, still sitting on the small boy.   
  
  
Harry Potter woke up in an unfamiliar cell, to the familiar face of his professor. He groaned. "You weren't just some strange dream," he muttered slightly and winced at the overwhelming pain in his head.   
  
Snape glared at him, black eyes icy. "You, Potter, are an idiot." The Potions Master straightened up from his crouch and stalked out of the cell, locking the door behind him.  
  
Harry blinked slightly in shock. "Yeah, well, from what Sirius and Professor Lupin have told me, you weren't the brightest bulb yourself," he muttered rebelliously.   
  
Snape sent him a forbidding look. "What happened with the potion?"  
  
"Uh..." Harry tried to think in vain. "I don't remember."  
  
"Hmm. So, side effects of that batch are loss of memory, which is bad for making a lesson stick, uncontrollable convulsions and an extreme headache afterwards. Maybe I should exclude the mugwort and dilute the clementine some more next time..."  
Snape thought out loud.   
  
"Hey, how do you know that I have a headache?" Harry asked loudly, and then regretted it. Vibrations from his own voice were only making his head hurt more.  
  
Snape cast a contemptuous glance his way. "Aside from the fact that two minutes ago you were awake and complaining about it, you winced when you spoke the first time, indicating that sound causes pain."  
  
"I was awake two minutes ago?!"  
  
Snape shook his head. "That's part of the oddness of it all. You weren't really awake, but you were talking quite a bit. Something about a 'Dudley' and 'Hedwig'. And your headache."  
  
"Oh." Harry was still for a moment. "Did I say... anything?"  
  
"No," Snape said softly. "You didn't. Except for that bit about Dudley being a miniature rhinoceros and for Hedwig to stop hooting so loudly as your head hurt enough as it was."  
  
Harry visibly relaxed. "That's all right then." He shifted around awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable position for his head. He tried desperately to remember what the potion had felt like, but the only thing he could remember was the conversation leading up to him drinking it. And wait a minute - Snape had promised...  
  
"So when do I get my story then?"  
  
"What?" Snape sent a startled look his way. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Don't tell me you're going to go back on your word now," Harry said, indignant. "Apparently that potion really hurt, so I'd better be getting my pain's worth out of this. Start talking."  
  
"Oh." Snape sighed. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that part." He shifted from his position into a more comfortable one.   
"I may as well start at the very beginning... the first time I met them all. And Potter, don't interrupt. This story will take long enough as it is."  
  
Harry nodded solemnly, though unseen by Snape.   
  
"The first person of your parents' group of friends that I met was Sirius Black. He came from an old, pureblood line that had strong ties to the Dark Magicks - you could say that your Godfather is the black sheep of the bunch, being so affiliated with the light side. His entire family, save his dead parents and brother, were deeply ashamed of him and in fact helped to plot his being framed, and then prevented him getting a trial." Snape snorted. "Family love indeed. Anyway, the meeting took place before Sirius began to show his do-gooder tendencies; those really only began to show themselves when in the company of your father or Lupin. We were eight or nine and my family was throwing a party. I'd gotten bored of it all early on and was hiding in one of the armory rooms. Black literally fell into it as well, fifteen minutes later..."  
  
  
An eight-year-old Severus Snape stands in the shadow of a suit of armor, nervously watching the door in case his parents decide to search him out and ready to bolt through the secret passageway in case they do come in. He'd gotten extremely tired of having his cheeks pinched by funny-smelling old witches with green gunks in their teeth when they smiled, and so had decided to hide.   
  
The door creaked open hesitantly and within a second, Severus had darted halfway into the hidden passageway before he realized that his parents would have announced themselves before entering a room, even though it would give away the element of surprise. It was one of their (many) flaws.   
  
Slowly, Severus crawled out of the passageway and stood stock still, waiting to see who the intruder was.   
  
A nine-year-old boy stood in the frame of the doorway, almost hesitantly. He looked over his shoulder and whatever he saw must have convinced him to come in because he darted through the doorway and slammed the door shut.   
  
For a few minutes, all that could be heard was that boy's breathing, as Severus could hide the sound of his own. Severus watched, slightly puzzled, as the boy walked around the room, lightly fingering the dusty pieces of weaponry and armor that lay around.   
  
"Who're you?" Severus asked bluntly from his shadowed corner. The boy jumped three feet straight into the air, face extremely startled.  
  
"What? Who's there?"  
  
"Severus Snape," Severus took a step forward, bringing him into the very dim light. "Who're you?"  
  
The boy grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark. "Sirius Black. Nice ta meet'cha!"  
  
Severus stared impassively at him, serious even at this young age. "Whatever. Who're you hiding from?"  
  
Sirius shuddered, grin disappearing. "Those witches - y'know, the ones with the funny smell and the green gunks in their teeth? - well, anyway, they wouldn't stop PINCHING MY CHEEKS! I mean, of all the nerve! I had to make a run for it or else I wouldn't have any cheeks left by the time this party'd be done... they'd be pinched off. What's your story?"  
  
Severus smiled a grim little smile. "Same as yours. Only I had to stick around for a few hours to be polite or else Father would have Crucio'd me after the ball was finished. He's very big on propriety."  
  
Sirius nodded understandingly. "Ah, I feel for you man. Caught between a rock and a hard place - you're in pain anyway."  
  
Severus inclined his head almost imperceptibly. "Quite. Do you think they've even noticed that we're gone yet?"  
  
Sirius grinned again. "Nope! Last I saw, the old witches were heading off in the direction of that horrid Malfoy. He's a bit old to have his cheeks pinched though... He's starting at Hogwarts this year isn't he?"  
  
"Last year," Severus idly corrected him. "You should have seen him, boasting and bragging as if it were special that a wizard of the appropriate age was to go to Hogwarts. He's a stuck-up prat. Almost failed his Potions class, from what I've heard..."  
  
"I can't wait until I get to go to Hogwarts. It's gonna be a blast, especially all the Quidditch! What House do you want to be Sorted into?"  
  
Severus gave him a scornful look. "Slytherin, of course. What other House is there to be in?"  
  
Sirius shrugged. "I dunno... wouldn't it be surreal if we were Sorted into Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor? I mean, I could stomach Ravenclaw - the family's got pretty close ties with Ravenclaw - but the other two... no way! I'd die before I became a Gryffindork."  
  
Severus sighed and slumped against a nearby, handy wall. "I would too, if only because Father would kill me. He wouldn't even want me in Ravenclaw: he was very clear about that last year when my cousin, Lezille, got Sorted into Ravenclaw and he disowned her. Not that she was really depending on him at all, since she's got her own family that supports her, but still, he was quite clear on what would happen if I dared become anything other than Slytherin. Thank Merlin that I wasn't born Squib, or else I probably wouldn't have lived to see my second birthday, and my first only so that he could show me around to all his relatives before it was discovered that I had no magical talent whatsoever. Father is quite good at manipulation."  
  
Sirius looked solemn for a moment. "I don't really know what the big deal is... I mean, even if you're not Slytherin, it doesn't mean that you're a horrible wizard, or are going to go to the light side. It just means that you have different traits, you know? My brother explained that to me a few years ago, when he was Sorted into Gryffindor. My parents didn't even mind, come to think of it. They almost seemed... happy."  
  
Severus frowned. "Odd. Weren't they in Slytherin?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Of course, and so were Grandda and Grandmere. Those two were a bit upset, but they got over it after Dad talked to them. They still treat him kinda cold, y'know? But they're getting back to how they used to be. Nice 'n all."  
  
The two boys were silent for a while, both moving over closer to the shadows that the buildings of armor cast. They'd prefer not to be easily visible from the doorway, just in case smelly old witches with green gunks in their teeth burst in unexpectedly, long fingers waving threateningly to pinch their still stinging cheeks.   
  
After a few minutes, Sirius spoke up. "So, what's it like living in this big castle?"   
  
Severus pursed his lips in thought for a second. "It's freezing in winter, and cold in summer. There's no fall or spring and the house-elves all try to beat themselves if you even go near them. Almost every room is layered in dust, since Father doesn't want the house-elves muddling around in them, and when I go through them, bored, my sneezing alerts my Mother as to where I am and then she tells Father. Then I am punished and that leads to me walking through more old rooms. Quite tedious, really, though it has its up points... the secret passageways, for example."  
  
Sirius blinked in happy shock. "You've got secret passageways?!"  
  
Severus shrugged. "Well, yes. Doesn't everybody? With a castle, I mean."  
  
Sirius shrugged too. "No. Well, not that you can really realize it. I mean, most of the supposedly 'secret' passageways aren't really secret... they've got instructions glued to them telling you exactly how they work. Quite bloody annoying, especially since they're spelled to say who used them last."  
  
"Yes, I can see how that would be a problem, especially when you just used one to escape a particularly nasty fate and someone comes along and sees where you've disappeared to. You'd be better off just going a different route, at least it wouldn't be so obvious," Severus thought broodingly, shoulders hunched. "All the secret passageways around here are secret. No one knows all of them, and I discover new ones every day. It gets interesting."  
  
Sirius frowned in pensive thought. "D'you think that we could go in one? I'd like to see what it's really like, with the dust and spiders and cobwebs and everything... all of our secret passageways are dusted and some of them have paintings hung along the inner wall."  
  
"I don't see why not. No one knows where we are, so they won't be able to find us and even if they do, I know more of the secret places than anyone alive, though some of the ghosts could probably teach me a thing or two. Come on, there's an opening over there," Severus gestured to a far wall, one where the hidden passageway was. "We can go now, if you like."  
  
Sirius nodded eagerly. "Yeah, that'd be great!"  
  
  
  
A soft snore interrupted Snape's storytelling. He snorted, and crossed his arms. Just like the brat to demand payment, and not even pay attention when it was being given.   
  
a familiar voice echoed in his thoughts.   
  
Ah, wonderful, the Potions Master groaned. I now have an inner-Albus. As if the real one doesn't pester me enough... 


	3. Odds & Ends & Surprise!

Chapter Three: Thoughts, Words, Memories, Questions, Sleep and Surprise!  
  
Time is fluid. That was something Hermione told him and Ron one night, while in the Common Room, sitting in the large armchairs by the fireplace. The flames were blazing and they were sleepily content, heat from the fire seeping into their bones, soaking them in decadent warmth. Out of the blue, Hermione had said that sentence, almost half lost in her own world where everyone understood everything she said without her having to explain it to him/her.   
  
Lids heavy on his eyes, he had asked, "What do you mean Hermione?" He shifted slightly, long bones sliding smoothly closer to the heat. He soaked it all up, a cat in sunshine.   
  
"It exists," she'd said, simply, as if that explained it all. As if those two words clarified everything.   
  
Maybe they did, and maybe, they didn't. In the pre-dawn hours, they floated in the space between them, hovering perfectly, waiting to be devoured by his and Ron's questing minds.   
  
It exists. He tasted those words, swirled them about the tip of his tongue. Time is fluid. It exists.   
  
Maybe in the waking hours, when everything was starkly and unrelievedly real, he would have scoffed at those words. He would not have understood.   
  
But half dreaming, bathed in comfort, mind open and receptive, he perceived the truth of Hermione's knowledge. And accepted it.   
  
When each had stumbled into their beds and woken the following morning, the realization of that truth had faded. Back in his mind was the potential to understand, if only someone could explain it to him.   
  
But class distracted, and the question he meant to ask Hermione was lost in a haze of school and Quidditch.   
  
Shivering in the dregs of his clothes/rags, in the late (early?) hours of night (day?), Harry wishes he had asked her that question. Wishes he had sought the answer. Wishes that he understood, wishes...   
  
He shivers, again, and forgets his wishes as a painful, searing heat devours his thoughts. Time exists. It is fluid. But which way does it flow, forwards or backwards or sideways, maybe, it's not tied down by gravity so it could perhaps go up like a reverse Niagara Falls, or it could just move in circles, or it could not move in any direction at all, could just be vibrating against itself, all aquiver, it cou-  
  
"Potter."   
  
Fevered green eyes, formerly intense, formerly bright, dulled, they stare at Snape. The sallow man's brow draws together, furrows like an edge drawn into clay.   
  
"Give a reason," the fragile boy rasps. "Give a reason for this. I can burn the fever right out, but I could also burn myself right out, why shouldn't I? Give a reason, professor. I'm so cold, and I'm so hot at the same time. I could just die. Why shouldn't I just die? I know there must be a reason, but I can't remember, can't decipher, it. Give a reason, Severus, why I shouldn't burn my veins out of my skin."  
  
"You're fevered, Potter. Why didn't you cure yourself, or tell one of us of your condition before it got to this state?" Snape asks, voice impersonal, but eyes flickering wildly. He stood just outside Harry's cell door, steel bars separating them.   
  
"Because I need a reason," is his answer.   
  
Muttering oaths, Snape paces the short length of corridor in front of Harry's cell. He knows that he should do something, anything. But what? Anything he does could have very serious repercussions; the best thing to do would be to sit back and wait for someone else to discover the brat's sickness, perhaps that maniac, Morpheus Lestrange.   
  
Another glance at the fevered boy, and Snape curses loudly. "Merlin's TEETH!"   
  
"Severus," Harry's tone is stern. "You shouldn't say such things. Not in front of me, anyway. Not proper form for a Professor, or an adult, you know."   
  
The tall, imposing man whirls to look directly into Harry's clear, if tired, green eyes. The slender boy shrugs.  
  
"Got tired of being sick. Thought it might be pleasant to experience the sensation, though. And to see the look on your face when you realized how bad off I was." Tired eyes dance mischievously.   
  
Snape sighs. Though the arrogant boy couldn't physically harm him, Harry could certainly play havoc with his mental health. And his nerves.   
  
*********************************************************************************************  
  
"I want the rest of my story."  
  
He glares. "As I recall, the last time I attempted to tell it to you, you fell asleep. I think that tells magnitudes about your interest of mine and Black's past."  
  
A glare answers him. "I want the rest of my story. Or else." Hinted at threat.  
  
"Or else what?" Threat answered.  
  
"I'll zap all your potions so they lose their integrity and you'll get nowhere fast, making old Moldywarts VERY displeased..."  
Slight smirk, striving to make its owner look superior. In all actuality, said owner looks more like a dirty cat, what with his vibrant green, feline eyes and less than note-worthy hygiene (though, to be fair, he didn't have much chance for bathing and whatnot).  
  
"You'll be the one Lord Voldemort punishes for delaying the process." Logic seems to win the argument. Seems.  
  
"Won't he wonder why you can't control me, a fourteen year old boy, when you are a Potions Master, well in the prime of your life?" Apparently logic is not on said Potions Master's side this time.   
  
"...."   
  
"I want the rest of my story. We made a deal, Sev." Intensity distilled to the gaze of steady emerald eyes.  
  
"Don't call me Sev." An aimless retort, pointless protest.  
  
"Tell the story." An imperious command, weakened only when the boy's voice cracks.  
  
"I will not. Not that story, anyway." A compromise offered.  
  
"And why not?" And denied.  
  
"Because it's not a story I enjoy recalling!" Loud denial of... what?  
  
"Yes, well, your potions aren't the kind that I enjoy swallowing." And there is that, accusation, plain and simple.  
  
"...."  
  
  
***********************************************************************************************  
  
  
His hand is a shriveled mess.   
  
Every time it attempts to heal over the small circle punctured through it, it is thwarted by a repeat procedure. Muscles have been severed, bones beginning to jut out. He can barely move his fingers, let alone grip anything.   
  
Sometimes he sits, mindlessly contemplating his hand, his life, or whatever it can be called now that he is where he is. His hand and his life, perfect parallels to each other. Both shriveled, and both unable to solidly grip anything at all. Not that his life was anything that could be called normal, before, but at least... at least there had been something that he could hold onto. Friendships, comfort, familiarity, stability. Gone, now, as he doesn't think that Morpheus quite qualifies as a friend and the moment he starts thinking of Snape as a comfort is the moment he really does burn his veins out of his skin.   
  
His hand is a shriveled mess, just as his soul, and his mind, are beginning to be.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
:: stare ::  
  
:: stare ::  
  
:: stare ::  
  
"Alright! I'll tell you your bloody story! Just stop looking at me already!"  
  
:: satisfaction ::  
  
"We went down the secret passageway, the one that lead us straight past the Great Hall in the castle. But Black seemed singularly incapable of being quiet, and so someone heard us passing by...  
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
Severus leads the way down the dark and winding secret path, Sirius bumbling after him. Severus rolls his eyes at Sirius' exclamations of delight and discovery, jaded already at the wondrous offerings secret passageways can give to young boys with adventurous spirits.   
  
He passes a particular notch in the wall and turns around completely. Sirius walks straight into him, and Severus glares.   
  
"We've got to be very quiet going through this part. It's important, the walls are particularly thin at certain points around here, and this is going past the Great Hall, where the party is being held now. If we're too loud, Father will hear; he's got ears like a cat's."  
  
Sirius nods, but doesn't seem to hear Severus' words. They walk on, Severus making an extra effort to be unheard, Sirius making no effort whatsoever.   
  
Maybe it's chance, or bad luck, or some nasty deity deciding to get his jollies in, but at the part of the passageway where the walls are the weakest, and during the part of the party just before someone starts a very important speech, where all the guests are quiet, Sirius finds the old battle-axe (laying, innocently, in some dank corner, just waiting for innocent and unsuspecting boys to stumble over it, cry out their joy, and therefore betray their presence to a majority of people, most of the Dark Arts wizards, all of them gleeful at the chance to torment a child) and yells happily, just knowing that if he can convince Severus to let him have said battleaxe, his older brother could never make fun of him again.  
  
All the guests' heads swivel, in eerie unison, to the wall. All the guests have heard Sirius, and all the guests know that he who spoke was no ghost. Tiberius Snape, in particular, knows well that his son has disappeared and also knows the castle, and its many secret compartments, quite well.   
  
Humiliation burning in him, the powerfully tall man strides to the wall, fully aware that a secret passageway runs through that part of the castle. He raps on it sharply, three times in succession. "Who is in there?" He thunders, knowing, just knowing, that his son will speak up and embarrass him, make him the laughing stock of all his associates and peers.   
  
Inside the secret passageway, Sirius and Severus stand stock-still, eyes wide.   
  
"Oh, sh-" Sirius begins to say, but Severus clamps his hand across the taller boy's mouth.   
  
"Don't. Speak." He whispers harshly into Sirius' ear.   
  
Scared out of his wits ("If in fact he had any," Snape says dryly), Sirius nodded. Severus slowly backed up, bringing Sirius with him. Then slowly, very, very slowly, he starts to edge sideways, towards freedom.   
  
"Come out now, whoever you are!" Tiberius bangs fearfully on the stone wall. And Severus, conditioned by a lifetime of obeying those words, stands stock-still, fear shaking him to the very tips of his greasy black hair.   
  
Sirius squirms, not understanding just why Severus hasn't yet moved. Severus clamps his grip harder down on Sirius and his breathing gets ragged.   
  
"Don't move, you nitwit," he whispers, tone belying the fact that he is not truly angry. Just terrified, that's all. "Don't you understand what'll happen to me if he finds us? Crucio, that's what. So don't move, and don't speak, and if you can help it at all, don't breathe. Thanks for being such a help, you lackwit. Remind me not to get into any more messes with you."   
  
Sirius stiffens with anger at Severus' words, but at the moment can't retaliate, and at the same time, doesn't really want to. He's the one who got the both of them in this mess, and he knows it. He just wishes that Severus wouldn't vocalize it quite so loudly, though of course Severus speaks in the barest of whispers.   
  
Severus begins to sidle his way down the passageway, headed for the nearest out. Outside the passageway, in the Great Hall, Tiberius has the same idea.   
  
The elder Snape walks, and is followed, by most of his guests and he leads them to an isolated and dust-covered bedroom (not the same one that Severus originally escaped to, as did Sirius later). He hushes his guests and waits for someone to appear. It doesn't take long until they hear light footsteps thudding their way.   
  
The guests, apparently greatly amused, talk quietly among themselves while waiting for the culprit to arrive. Two of them (a Crabbe and a Goyle, Snape says with some amusement) get into a heated argument just as the passageway entrance is being opened, and everyone can hear a terrified eep.   
  
Tiberius, now, knows that he has his man. He steps forward, grips the entrance and pulls it the rest of the way open.  
  
To reveal a lone Sirius Black, staring reproachfully back into the darkness that he previously walked through. He turns forward to face the many people that have come to see him emerge. And gulps.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
"So you abandoned Sirius to your father and some Dark wizards because you were too afraid to own up to your own crime, which was what, exactly? Showing a guest around?" Harry snorts.   
  
Snape sighs. "There was more to it than that, such as the fact that my father was not a reasonable man and would have Crucioed me at the mere thought that I caused him embarrassment... but essentially, yes."  
  
"So that's why you two have had it in for each other? All these years, come down to that single incident? An act of betrayal, and that set the tone for it all?"   
  
"There was more than the one incident, Potter. But yes, after that night, Black no longer trusted me and made sure no one else did either. From the lowliest Hufflepuff, to the most intelligent Ravenclaw, to the craftiest Slytherin... I was mistrusted. All because of the word of Sirius Black. Because he, along with your father, was everyone's golden boy." Snape's voice holds no end of contempt, and an eternity of bitterness.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
Another torture session.   
  
Another potion.   
  
Another whispered conversation in the dead of the night, a time at which neither one can sleep.   
  
Another sob that is choked back, another wound that burns with infection before his magic touch can get to it, another verbal spar with a man-snake who, with one word, dissolves the world into agony.   
  
Another day among however many that he has ceased to count. They already seem long enough, anyway; what's the point in counting hours?  
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
"Give a reason."   
  
A game they play, now, one that increasingly becomes macabre and depressing.   
  
"Weasley and Granger will miss you."  
  
One wound healed.   
  
"And another."  
  
Simple request, so hard to fulfill.   
  
"Your mother died so you could live."  
  
One infection purged.  
  
"More."  
  
Whispered demand.  
  
"To spite Him."   
  
Bone set straight, merged two pieces together.   
  
"Please. Give me a reason. Just one more."  
  
The begging of desperate man, searching for something to drive him on to continue living.   
  
"Black would... Black would be devastated. Most likely self-inflict an Avada Kedavra."  
  
A little smile, and the last of the wounds are healed. Green eyes blink wearily, their glow diminished to a mere ember spark.   
  
"Thank you, Sev."  
  
For once the nickname is not contested.   
  
***********************************************************************************************  
  
Everyone had always said that Potter resembled his Father most. The infamous James Potter, the beloved of all who met him.   
  
Severus can't see it himself: he looks at the young fourteen(?), fifteen(?) year old and sees only signs of Lily. The burning green eyes, though Lily's never did burn that brightly, if at all. The curve of his face, the slightness of his build. The fragile delicacy that seemed to overshadow the small boy, no matter what situation he is put in. Even flying, Harry Potter doesn't look like he is strong enough to hold onto his broom firmly enough to stay on.   
  
Severus looks at Harry and where once he saw only the loathed face of James Potter, he sees only the much admired and respected visage of Lily Evans-Potter, the only person he had ever met that knew him without judging him.   
  
Maybe the resemblance isn't physical. Maybe it's that one trait that mother and son share: they do not judge, or pass judgment.   
  
Be that as it may, all Severus sees is Lily and Harry himself. There is no James, except perhaps in the wildness and blackness of the teen's hair. And the glasses. Mustn't forget the glasses...  
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
Harry sleeps in small doses, waking every few hours from nightmares that shadow clear eyes. Severus watches, shrewd-gazed, when Harry starts to reality, gasps echoing out of him.   
  
Sometimes he thinks that maybe he should ask Harry what he dreams. Sometimes he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could counsel the poor child, help him understand his nightmares. Then he takes a closer look at the fetal position that the fearless boy takes every night, the way his gasps slowly morph into carefully stifled, hitched sobs.   
  
And he knows that nothing can ever help the savior of the wizarding world. Some things are just too big.   
  
Then one night, maybe two and a half weeks into their association (though neither one has really kept track), Harry stumbles/crawls to the bars that separate them and he breathes out, "Why does everything have to hurt so much?"   
  
Snape can't say anything, but his hand, long and thin and bony, reaches between the bars and smoothes down the filthy, matted mess called hair, passes over damp cheeks, drying them. He can't say anything, but he can offer comfort.   
  
Harry grips the bars that separate them loosely in his hands, leaning as far as he can towards Snape. His eyes burn so bright, so fiercely, they burn straight into Snape's soul. And illuminate.   
  
A timeless moment, and Snape says, "Go back to sleep. I'll guard your dreams."  
  
Harry smiles a tired smile and closes his eyes. "That's right. You're bigger and meaner than any of the monsters, so you'll chase them away for me, right?"   
  
"That's right. That's it, exactly." They are both masters of intensity, the slight teen and the Potions master. Now Snape brings all his skills to bear, and wills Harry to believe him.   
  
Harry breathes out, relaxes, and sleeps. His hands stay wrapped about the bars, as Snape's stays laid against his cheek, a gentle benediction, a parent's gentle touch.   
  
And in the morning, Snape stands impassively by as Voldemort casts Crucio on Harry. Watches clinically as the boy he previously comforted writhes and moans and twists soundlessly, trapped in a universe of pain.   
  
And in the morning, Snape picks the senseless boy up from the stone cold floor, by Voldemort's scaly feet. He walks with the boy held carelessly in his arms. Somehow, probably by the odd positioning that his carrying Harry entails, his hand once again finds a resting place against Harry's cheek.   
  
Dazed with pain, the boy smiles.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
It's a mystery why he hasn't died yet. It makes no sense. Why should someone keep him alive when they have no obvious reason to do so?   
  
The Slytherin in Snape searches out the less obvious reason, then, and can still find none.   
  
He watches Lucius, in hopes that Voldemort's most favored will let something slip. He watches Morpheus, in hopes that Voldemort's most trusted will vaguely mention something that will make everything click into place. He watches Voldemort himself, as the Dark Lord tortures his favorite victim, sickened internally at the look of utter malevolent glee on Voldemort's face, but still searching for that ever elusive clue.   
  
He never could find it. This bothered him, sure that Slytherin intellect and cunning should have garnered him his answer by now. And. It. Has. Not.   
  
So he must watch helplessly as Voldemort casts Crucio. So he must watch helplessly as Morpheus shoves an iron pole through a trembling hand, and bath young flesh first in a liquid mixture, then in flame. So he must watch helplessly as Lucius cruelly hurls a bundle of rags and blood into a barren cell. And so he must helplessly concoct potions that bring indefinite agony and feed them to a caustic, conversely gentle man-child.   
  
Sometimes he has 'mistakes'. Sometimes the potions he makes, ones that should bring unbearable pain, bring unequaled bliss instead. He explains these off to Voldemort as accidents in dosage: too much of something, too little of another, or maybe an exclusion of this ingredient entirely... The scaled monster quickly blocks out his Potion master's droning, subservient voice, and dismisses him back to his dungeons.   
  
Snape prowls his testing rooms, smirking slightly as he recalls Harry's initial words to seeing them. "Merlin's teeth! Do you ever escape the dungeons, Severus?"   
  
Almost as if the boy is there now, in the dungeons with him, that's how clearly Snape can hear his voice.   
  
But Harry can't be, since currently Lucius has him. Snape winces at the reminder; after a session of Lucius right before nighttime, the boy has worse nightmares than ever before. He sleeps, of course, too exhausted to do anything else. But it is Snape who has to watch as Harry twists and turns, protesting against the pull of new wounds starting to heal over.   
  
It really is amazing, Snape marvels, what that boy can do with wandless magic, with no previous training. Really quite amazing, especially considering the fact that he seems to hardly ever tire past the point of not being able to cast a spell in the next half-hour or so.   
  
Something that Albus Dumbledore, with years of training, has never been able to accomplish.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
They hardly ever talk about Hogwarts, or Dumbledore, or Hermione, or Ron, or Sirius, or Remus. They hardly ever talk about the world outside of their little circle of pain.   
  
After this long, Snape too is in the dark about what's going on in the outside world since he hasn't been allowed to leave Voldemort's castle, or to send messages out either. If he needs any supplies, he requests them of Voldemort, who contacts a supplier in Norway, who owls them to Voldemort, who has them thoroughly checked over, and then given to Snape. A lengthy process that doesn't take up too much time, surprisingly.   
  
Aside from their little games of 'Give a Reason', no mention is made of anyone but the two of them in any of their conversations, unless Harry is pushing for another story courtesy of SnapeMemoryExpress.   
  
Snape doesn't know why, but he finds that he enjoys this fact. That for the moment, only he and Morpheus and Lucius, and of course Voldemort, exists for the boy. He derives some sick, twisted pleasure from knowing that it is from him that Harry seeks protection and comfort from nightmares, companionship in conversation.   
  
He likes being needed.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
It hardly seems right, Harry reflects, that I should think of Snape as a comfort. Wasn't it just a few weeks ago that I was saying to myself that if I ever thought that Snape was a comfort, it was sure sign that I've gone off my rocker and should really consider the 'burn my veins out of my skin' route?   
  
It hardly seems right.   
  
And it somehow is.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
Harry looks down at the small glass goblet filled to the brim with some unidentifiable potion he holds and then looks up at the expectant Snape. His lips quirk into a smile and he says,   
  
"Give a reason."  
  
Snape stares for a moment, then starts to chuckle, a sound that Harry has never before heard.   
  
"I'll tell you a story if you do," he offers.   
  
Harry cocks his head, considering it, or appearing to anyway. "No, I don't think so," he denies the offer.   
  
"Hmmm," Snape taps long fingers against his chin, apparently lost in thought. "It would make Voldemort happy."  
  
Harry snorts. "As if I want ol' Moldywarts to get his rocks off on me drinking this."  
  
Snape chokes on the mental imagery Harry provides, a sputter rising up through his throat and transforming into a strangled laugh on its way out of his mouth. He calms after a few seconds, Harry watching him amusedly.   
  
"It would make me happy," Snape finally says.   
  
"Would it really?" Harry asks in a whisper, staring straight at his Potions Professor. Offers his trust.   
  
Snape smiles a secretive smile that would seem vaguely sinister to anyone who didn't know him as well as Harry now does, and nods. "Yes. It would."  
  
And so Harry quirks an eyebrow and swallows the slightly bubbly concoction down with no trouble. He is hit by a feeling of delight and joy, the feeling tingling down to his littlest finger and to his littlest toe, and he begins to laugh and laugh and laugh for the feel of it.   
  
In his mind, Snape begins to create an elaborate lie to satisfy the Dark Lord's oppressive and angry curiousity. 'In all honesty, my Lord, I sincerely think that your supplier has been tampering with some of the ingredients. Or someone else down the line, perhaps? The potions are being adversely affected by something, you may as well know.'   
  
Yes. That should do quite nicely.   
  
************************************************************************************************  
  
And on this one night, Severus is away, mixing up new potions to test on his human guinea pig come morning. And Lucius has gone back to his manor to play attentive husband and father to his perfect, illustrious family. And Morpheus has retired to his chambers to remember fondly the vibrant woman that once was his wife, and to hold the shriveled, comatose husk that she is now, a product of Azkaban, his perfect, broken Dove. And Moldywarts plots the doom of the wizarding and muggle word.   
  
In his cell, for once in a very long time, Harry Potter is completely alone, with not even the threat of immediate pain hanging over him.   
  
He resolves to rest, and enjoy his quiet solitude. He moves to the farthest wall in his cell, staying in shadows, as they offer comfort of a sort. A Death Eater of a lower order stomps by, pauses in front of Harry's cell. He peers in, and Harry feels a moment of panic at the thought that some random wizard will now have the chance to hurt him, instead of the carefully calculated torturers he had received in the forms of Morpheus, Lucius and Severus.   
  
But the Death Eater has not seen the small, broken boy. Indeed, though he has opened the door, he has not made any move to enter. Instead he motions with his wand for a man, clearly under the Imperio curse who is carrying in his arms the lankily long body of another man, who is still breathing, thankfully, to go inside. Strangely, there is something in the way that the man walks that is completely familiar to Harry.   
  
Once both men are inside, the Death Eater closes the cell door and locks it. He then breaks the Imperio curse, and watches with pleasure as the man blinks and shakes his head in confusion, not understanding where he is.   
  
Before the man manages to regain full control of his mental facilities, the Death Eater casts Binding spells on the both of them and chuckles as he walks off.   
  
The man, who looks so amazingly familiar, blinks again, confused, and looks down. Sees the man he carries who is knocked out, and he cries out in sorrow.   
  
He sits, slumped against the wall, and rapidly checks for the other man's pulse.   
  
It's night and the torches around aren't very many in number. Harry can barely make out that the man wears glasses and that the unconscious man's dark hair overflows to the ground. But he can tell how much the awake man is worried about the man who has been knocked out, and how much seeing him in such a state hurts the man who is still awake.   
  
"Hullo," Harry says, to get the man's attention, and steps forward.   
  
The man whirls around to look at Harry, blue eyes vivid even in the darkness. And Harry feels something leaden sink into his stomach, because the man's face, before invisible because it had been clothed in shadows, the man's face...   
  
The man's face is his own. Or more accurately, James Potter's. 


	4. Interlude 1: An Explanation of the Sudde...

A/N: Disclaimer still holds. Imbecile.  
  
Interlude #1: An Explanation of the Sudden Appearance of James Potter and Sirius Black  
  
1978, Diagon Alley  
  
Two hours. Two very short hours before he dies.  
  
James William Potter winces and ruffles his already wild black hair nervously. Two hours before his wife of five months and 29 days kills him.  
  
"Oh, cheer up Prongs!" Sirius Black, best friend and staunch supporter, whaps James on the back in what is supposed to be a brotherly gesture of support. In truth, it knocks the wind out of James and causes him to stumble forward a few paces. "You'll find something soon, don't worry!"  
  
Two hours before his six month anniversary, and Lily C. Evans-Potter discovers that her doting husband has yet to get her an anniversary gift. Two hours before his untimely (and knowing Lils, most likely violent) death.  
  
Sirius shakes his head, adept after all these years at reading the expression on James' face. His friend is contemplating running away and not coming back, in mortal fear of. well, his wife. Voldemort has nothing on Lily Potter.  
  
"I've already been looking for the last three months, straight! And I'm just supposed to all of a sudden find something that I'm just sure that she'll love? Isn't that a bit optimistic, Padfoot?"  
  
Sirius sighs. "Look, James, calm down. Even if you can't find something now, when we get back, just bluff it to the Lady Lily until I get there with an utterly exquisite gift that I'm sure she'll enjoy, okay? Don't stress, old friend, Padfoot's got your back!" And he winks.  
  
James just shakes his head dolefully. He knows the kind of gifts that Sirius is likely to come up with, and he's not waiting with bated breath to see Lily's reaction to whatever Sirius manages to get, if indeed James gets to that stage of desperation.  
  
"Oh, look! Pawn shop!"  
  
James allows Sirius to drag him inside of an old, decrepit wizarding thrift store, shaking his head in vague amusement. The taller man has always delighted in old things, or more specifically, old mechanical-magical hybrid things. And it seems that he has found one in the form of a broken Time-Turner.  
  
"You know you'll never get that to work again," James warns his age-old friend before Sirius has a chance to buy it. "The Ministry wouldn't have allowed it out to public if it could have been fixed by any means possible. Don't even try, Padfoot, remember the last time you got wrapped up in something like this? You were a turtle for five weeks!"  
  
"And who kept poking my shell?" Sirius retorts tartly, absentmindedly, as he continues to inspect his newest toy.  
  
James flushes, and doesn't say anything more.  
  
The proprietor of the store, an elderly witch with graying hair and a skittish disposition, eyes them both warily, suspicious of anyone under the age of ancientness. James glances at her from time to time, disturbed just a bit by her intense brown gaze. He nudges Sirius, nods towards the witch.  
  
"Isn't there something kind of. scary about her?"  
  
Sirius doesn't even look up from the Time-Turner. "Nonsense, Prongs. You're just being overly paranoid again."  
  
"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you," James quips, grin springing to his lips at his trademark phrase.  
  
Still not looking up, Sirius rolls his eyes.  
  
James leaves his friend to wander around the shop, looking at oddities and ancient relics of times long since past. The pawnshop is really more of an antique store, except for the fact that almost all of its wares are defunct, broken or cracked in some way. He feels out of place here, disrespectful somehow of things long past. He feels like he doesn't belong, which is a feeling that he really isn't used to. He glances again at Sirius, who is still enraptured by the old, broken Time-Turner. He doesn't seem to notice his out-of-placeness.  
  
Maybe it's because Sirius isn't really out of place anywhere.  
  
James sighs again, running fingertips along edges of countertops, feeling for imaginary dust. The scary witch must also be a neat freak, he decides. It's nearly impossible to keep any area of space free of dust, unless said area is a person, and even then, if said person slept for long enough, James is sure that they will quickly acquire a slight layer of the stuff.  
  
He really has to get out of here; the oldness of the air is mugging up his mind. It's getting quite bad, in fact, he thinks that he can actually hear someone screaming-  
  
"Prongs!" Sirius yells from across the room, blue eyes pale in his face, and large too from shock. "Hurry, there's a Death Eater attack outside!"  
  
So, maybe the screaming wasn't in his head after all.  
  
Shaking himself into action, James nods once, sharply, and runs out of the store, Sirius at his heels with the broken Time-Turner dangling from his fingers. The neat-freak, scary witch glares at the retreating, lanky man, but decides against mentioning it. She rather thinks that they're out of earshot anyway, with the rate that they ran out.  
  
James strains his ears for the sounds of screaming, a sound that he is all to familiar with after all his years as an Auror, and before that as one fourth of the Marauders, a group of teenage boys well used to causing mayhem, which of course led to shrieks of all kinds. For all his twenty some years, James Potter is well acquainted with the sounds of screams.  
  
The two men run, pushing their lean bodies to maximum speed. It's taxing, but exhilarating to run like this, so that you can feel your bones straining against skin, and muscle pulling loose. So that the air you gulp in is exhaled just as fast in ragged pants, and your arms are scissoring at your sides, and you feel as if you are faster than the wind itself.  
  
James is made for it, this exhilaration of adrenaline, this feeling of flight. It's part of the reason that he's such a good Quidditch player: few are as at home in the air as he is.  
  
In mere seconds they are at the site of the crime. Six Death Eaters attacking a small sweetshop.  
  
Before tackling them all head-on, James and Sirius exchange grins, dangerous and reckless smiles that speak of trouble ahead and great fun to be had. Familiar smiles from the Hogwarts days, right before they engaged in a particularly clever prank. And they jump in, curses blasting from their wand-tips.  
  
They are in their element and loving every minute of it.  
  
They were trained at the same time as Aurors, and so are used to fighting together against any number of foes. They typically fight back to back, as they do now, moving with each other's actions; letting the flow of the other's back against them direct their movements. Some part of it is instinct, knowing your fighting partner so well that you move in the direction he is about to before he does himself. They cut a swathe through the Death Eaters, annihilating two right off the bat and almost evening out the scale between the forces. They have not graduated top of their classes in both Hogwarts and the Academy for nothing.  
  
"How goes it Padfoot?" James asks breathlessly between curses.  
  
"Not bad, Prongs, not bad at all. Brings me back to those days when it was just me and you and a horde of Slytherins, doesn't it now?" Sirius answers flippantly, tossing off a stunning curse towards a squat Death Eater who moves with a graceless quality that seems oddly familiar.  
  
"Nah," James chuckles. "Slytherins were much tougher than these, much tougher indeed. They actually made me sweat."  
  
"If that's the criteria you're going by, then Lily must be the strongest adversary you've ever come up against," Sirius jokes, moving to the side slightly to avoid a lock-leg curse. It hits James instead, and there is where everything goes wrong.  
  
For James goes down, and the curse that was aimed at him from some other Death Eater hits Sirius instead, and the tall man also falls.  
  
"Great," James grouses. "Just great. Now we're gonna die. I so did not want my last minutes to be in the middle of a dusty street, surrounded by Death Eaters, you know that Padfoot? The only thing right about this scene is that you're here too."  
  
"Oh, so you want me to die, do you?" Sirius mutters acerbically. "Thanks ever so. But you'll not get your wish today, James Potter. We'll get out of this. Somehow."  
  
As if on cue, the Death Eaters, who have been drawing ever closer in a circle, raise their wands in unison and begin to call out random curses, apparently eager to torture their victims some before killing them.  
  
Four hexes hit them simultaneously, Sirius raising his hands in an automatic defensive gesture. The broken Time-Turner dangles from his wand- less hand and a curse strikes it head on. A bright flash of light, and the two Marauders get the strangest sensation that they're falling backwards into a stream of endless light.  
  
"Well, shit," is the last thing James hears before he blacks out.  
  
///  
  
Okay. Lying on something soft, with sort of hard pieces sticking up here and there. Next move would be to open eyes. Come on, open eyes dammit!  
  
///  
  
James Potter opens his dazed eyes, coming slowly into consciousness.  
  
"Will you get off of me now?"  
  
He looks down, into the pissed off, slightly amused eyes of Sirius Black, and flushes.  
  
"Sorry Padfoot," he mutters and rolls over, and off of, his human pillow. "Didn't see you there."  
  
"Yes, well," Sirius grumbles, but picks himself up nevertheless. James does likewise, then frowns.  
  
"Wait a minute. Padfoot, don't you think there's something wrong with this picture?"  
  
"No, really? We're lost in a forest, where once we were in the middle of a city. I don't know how you ever got the idea that there was something wrong here."  
  
"Shut up, and think for a minute. Not two seconds ago, could we stand up? No. What happened to the curses?"  
  
Sirius sends a patient look to his friend. "Prongs, my dear buddy, do shut up before whatever kind deity who has taken pity on us becomes affronted with your attitude and sends the curses back to us full force. All right then? Okay. Let's focus on more important things, shall we? For instance, where are we, and where are our wands?"  
  
James shrugs and wipes some dirt off of his robes. "I dropped mine when I got hit by the leg-locker. You could have warned me, you know! I mean, I was right in the line of fire!"  
  
"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Sirius asks playfully. "Anyway, we got out of it okay, didn't we? So quit your whining."  
  
James bites back the urge to retort, instead looking around. "Where are we Sirius?"  
  
It's not just a case of not being in the same location that they'd been in not two minutes before. It had something to do with the fact that James couldn't recognize anything at all; he'd never been in these woods before, and as part of his Auror training he'd been taken all over England and the surrounding areas. As an Auror, he had been trained to know the land like he knows Lily's curves: instinctively and immediately.  
  
He doesn't know this land.  
  
Sirius is quiet at the mention of his actual name. It's seldom used when the two are engaged in Auror duties: it always seems safer to stick to code- names, and these are the names that they've had for more than half a decade or so now. They fit, and are more comfortable than the actual name most of the time.  
  
He sheds his playful demeanor and actually looks around, pale eyes questing out landmarks. He is still, all life breathed out of him in a long whoosh. Sirius Orion Black looks ready to take on the world, feral ness emanating about him. He looks ready to kill, and seems quite eager to do so too.  
  
It is times like these that James is reminded why he was so glad to have Sirius as a friend back in first year, when he'd been a scrawny runt with a bigger mouth than any muscle. It's times like these when he's so glad that he's not Sirius' enemy, because he knows that all of Sirius' enemies don't last for very long.  
  
"You're right, James," Sirius nods affirmatively. He understood what James had inferred from his simple question, a lifetime of being each others' best friend giving them a connection that not even Lily could intrude upon. "Wherever we are, it's not in England, or Scotland either, probably. These woods look old and they're pretty widespread. This is an ancient place, and it's full of magic. We should tread carefully here."  
  
"You have no idea how right you are," a low voice chuckles from the lurking shadows of the tall trees.  
  
As one the partners turn to greet the new threat, and come face to face with a wand. Holding it is a man in his late twenties, clad in Death Eater robes, but still unmasked. He smirks viciously, and points his wand at James before either can react. "Imperio."  
  
Like trying to move against a neck high river of mud, James pushes against his mind. He knows that something, or someone, is moving his limbs, his bones. He feels the swishing of air grace his hair, ruffle it, and he can hear a startled grunt and Sirius' pain filled moan. He can hear Sirius saying, "Fight it off Prongs!"  
  
And, oh Merlin, he tries.  
  
But it's so painful, when he tries to regain control, and it's so hard to focus. He keeps forgetting why he wants to cast off the spell, why he's not content to just let it rule him. Because when he doesn't move against the river of mud, when he's not pushing for control, he feels the deepest peace that he's ever felt, deeper than he ever felt when flying through the air, deeper than when he's with Lily.  
  
He feels. an indescribable sensation.  
  
"Fight it off Prongs!"  
  
He wishes he could see what he's doing, but even that much control has been taken from him. He wishes he could know what he's doing to his best friend, at the very least, how much he is hurting Sirius.  
  
He can feel Sirius not fighting back. Remotely, he rages against his oldest friend. Why can't you just beat me off? We both know that you're the stronger, Padfoot! Just knock me out!  
  
But Sirius has always been, and always will be, incredibly over-protective, even of someone that he has been trained with, someone he has seen broken and bloodied countless times. If anything, such encounters only strengthen his resolve to get James through any given situation unscathed.  
  
James almost breaks free of the spell at one point: the caster had gotten smug and lazy, and hadn't put the same force into it that he had before. The pressure had let up, just a bit, and James could walk his way through the mud, could find it in himself to ignore the pain. So he did, and found himself staring at Sirius' bloodied face, his disheveled form and broken arm.  
  
"Padfoot?" James whispers, shocked.  
  
Something hopeful is born in Sirius' eyes, a light in them. "That's right, Jamesie boy, just shake it off." He speaks the same way he did when they were 11 years old together, and James had been terribly afraid of heights. Sirius had been the one to coax the gawky pre-teen on to a broom, and had been the one who stayed up there for hours with the still scared boy. Just hearing that tone again relaxes James immediately.  
  
"I'm sorry Sirius," he tells him, voice cracking.  
  
"Yeah, well, you can be sorry when we get back and have to file the reports. You know, by doing all the triplicate forms."  
  
"Anything," James tells him, remorse glinting across monochrome glasses.  
  
But both men have disregarded the fact that there is a Death Eater with them, a semi-competent one with a wand. Not the best combination.  
  
They hear the Death Eater's outraged squawk, and just before James is sent back to that damned river of mud, he can see the hope in Sirius' eyes, wither, and die. And then he sees no more.  
  
///  
  
The spell is more powerful than before; apparently the Death Eater had become frightened when his Imperio seemed to be wearing off, and so increased the force of intent behind it. James can't even fight against the current anymore, can't even realize that he's hurting his best friend.  
  
The Death Eater chuckles, low in his throat, as he watches the shorter man battle against the taller, stronger looking one, and winning. He, the Death Eater, realizes that the wizard he has chosen to cast Imperio upon normally would never have a chance against the other. But he also realizes that the stronger man is the protective type, the type who never strikes back against a friend, at least not while in his right mind.  
  
The irony of this fight strikes the Death Eater as hilarious, and as he watches it, he laughs and laughs and laughs. The manic, possessed form of James Potter echoes his laughter.  
  
As James slams his fist into Sirius' nose, bloodying and breaking it, he laughs. As James bends, breaks Sirius' arm, he laughs. As James claws Sirius' face, he laughs. As James slams his foot, repeatedly, into Sirius' rib-cage, he laughs.  
  
And as Sirius looks up at James with sorrowing disbelief in his eyes, James laughs. Perhaps it is a mercy that Sirius' body chooses this moment to overload on its sensory modes detecting overwhelming pain and mental anguish. For, Sirius Black knows, he will never forget the sound of that laughter, not as long as he lives.  
  
///  
  
All right. Carrying something, heavy and solid in my arms. Merlin, is it heavy! Okay. Look down; try to figure out what it is. Look down. Come on, Potter, surely it can't be too hard to look the bloody hell down!  
  
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.  
  
All right. Voluntary neck movements are seemingly at zero percent functionality. And it seems that that's the way for the rest of me too, though I can feel my legs moving. Right.  
  
It is possible to look ahead, I think. Yes. Bloody hell, there's nothing to see except for a whole lot of nothing. Bloody, bloody hell. Wait - is that a torch? Yes. Yes it is. Okay, walking right past the torch now. Turn head sideways, dammit! Try to look at the walls. Oh, right. No voluntary neck movements.  
  
Okay. If all else fails, try to remember what just happened. Curiously, that's a blank.  
  
All right. So. Today is.. Fucking hell. Lily's going to kill me.  
  
Put that out of your mind, James, m'boy. Focus on remembering. Right.  
  
Shopping with Padfoot for that all-important six-month anniversary gift. The pawnshop, the freaky old woman, and. screams! Right, there was a Death Eater attack! You're on a roll, Potter. There was a Death Eater attack, and something about Padfoot not warning me about a curse before it hit. huh. Sounds just like the bugger. He'd prolly say, 'Where's the fun in warning you before the event has occurred?' or some such shit.  
  
Right. Curses from Death Eaters hitting me, and Padfoot probably laughing all the while. I can deal with that. But what came after?  
  
Dammit. Did someone cast Obliviate on me while I wasn't looking?  
  
Focus, Potter. Focus. Okay. So, being cursed by the Death Eater, being laughed at by Padfoot, what comes next? Falling. Falling into what? Okay, that doesn't matter. Where did I land? On top of something soft, and kind of hard in some places. Right, remember that much. Come on, you can do more, Prongs! What else happened?  
  
A. Forest! That's it, an unfamiliar forest that neither of us recognized. Well. That's odd. We must be really out of the way, then, or else outside of England entirely.  
  
All right. So I've determined that we're in a forest. But. why would a forest have torches? And where's Padfoot? Dammit, did he DITCH me?! Oh, he is so going to get it the next time I see him. The smug bastard, he probably thought it would be some kind of grand joke, take me out to the middle of wilderness and leave me all alone. Though. it IS a good prank. Maybe we should try it on Peter or Remus?  
  
No. No, that can't be right; Padfoot wouldn't ditch me, not like this, not even for a prank. And even if he did, it still doesn't explain just WHY I can't move my own neck, and just why I'm walking without knowing where I'm going, or even what's currently in my arms that is so very heavy.  
  
There must be something more that I'm missing. Something more. Okay, so we're in the forest. The strange, ancient, magic filled forest. What did Padfoot say about it? Something about it being old and widespread and unfamiliar, so most likely not in England. Right. More is coming back now.  
  
So what came next?  
  
Ah, fucking hell. I hate it when this happens. This feeling. this feeling of not knowing, not remembering, of not being in control. It feels familiar. When have I felt this way before? In. Hogwarts? Yes. In Hogwarts, fifth year. The year that You Know Who began to take over everything. The year the Professors decided that it would be best to show us the effects of the Unforgivable Curses, and did so by putting the mildest of them on us, the students, to ensure that we wouldn't try such Dark Magicks on other living beings.  
  
And the mildest of the Unforgivables is. Fuck. I know that there are three of them. Avada Kedavra, that one's hard to forget. It's one of You Know Who's preferred methods of murdering, primarily because there is no known counter-curse or cure for the effects. And the second worst is Aosio. No. Crucio. That's right; that's the one that makes the victim go into convulsions of unbearable pain. It can also kill a person, depending on how long the person has been under the spell. Most don't last longer than a few moments, though to them it feels like centuries. It is one of You Know Who's preferred methods of torture, as He can carefully control the intensity of the Crucioes he casts, and thus ensure that his victim remains on the borderline of death and life, while writhing in agony. And the third.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I should know it. I should, but it's like the knowledge of it is locked up inside of me.  
  
The third Unforgivable, but also the most frequently used, Curse. It's. something to do with slaves. Making someone a slave? But no, that usually involves blood magic. That can't be it. Yes. Yes, it is. The third Unforgivable, it has to do with making someone a willing slave! Making progress, Potter!  
  
It's called. It's called. Imperio. That's right. Imperio.  
  
All right. Figured out what the third Unforgivable Curse is. Now, why did I want to know what it was in the first place? Something to do with fifth year Hogwarts. That's when they taught us all about the Unforgivables. But why would I be thinking about my fifth year? Hmmm.  
  
Huh. I've stopped walking. I wonder, what's going on? And, waitaminute! How come I can't control my own motions? This must have something to do with that third. third. third what? Bloody hell. Okay. What was I just thinking about? The third of what? And, something about slaves?  
  
All right. I can't control my own movements, I can't recover my own thoughts and memories, and Merlin knows I've tried to do both already. This sounds like Imperio, the third Unforgivable Curse we learned about in fifth year at Hogwarts. So. How did I get into a situation where someone could cast Imperio on me? The only time it's ever been cast on me was when Professor Daily did it, to demonstrate how easy it is to become lost in the spell, and how hard it is to resist it.  
  
This has something to do with Padfoot, I just know it. Everything, when the world comes down to it, has something to do with Padfoot. Or rather, Padfoot has something to do with everything. That sounds better.  
  
Focus, Potter. You know this so far: You are under the Imperio Curse, and Padfoot most definitely has something to do with it all. And there is something heavy in your arms, and said arms are starting to really, really ache. Now, how are you going to deal with it? You can't help the Imperio; the only person you know who can fight it off is your wife, and even she can only do it for a few seconds before she succumbs. Hell. This must mean that a Death Eater has control of my body.  
  
I really wish Padfoot would listen to me when I tell him that it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you. Because they're really out to get me.  
  
Get back on the bloody track Prongs. You are currently under the Imperio curse. Don't forget or else you won't remember it again. Just keep on repeating. oh, DAMN. What was I trying to remember? Imperio. Under it now. Right. Okay. And. I'm walking into something. Some kind of cell?  
  
Okay, I feel better now. More in control. What's going on, though? Where are we? What are we doing in some kind of medieval dungeon type room? Wait. I'm remembering some more.  
  
Oh. Oh. OH. Oh, no.  
  
Oh, Padfoot. Sirius. I'm so. I'm so sorry.  
  
My legs feel so weak; they're trembling. Merlin, Padfoot. I hurt you. I hurt YOU. I HURT you.  
  
You look. you look so pale. Oh, God. Please, tell me that's not blood. Merlin, Sirius, I can remember it all now. I can remember every little bit. The pawnshop, the time-turner, the freaky old lady, the Death Eater attack, the weird ride through space, landing on you, ending up in the forest, the fucking bloody Death Eater. The Imperio, and me. me hurting you. God, Siri! You should have just knocked me out. You should have just killed me. You should have. You should have.  
  
Merlin, Padfoot. Mer-fucking-lin.  
  
Oh, please tell me you have a pulse. Please.  
  
Thank Merlin. Blessed be all deities who watch over us, I thank thee for thy aid.  
  
A sound. Foot-falls, maybe. There is a dim outline of a shadow, over by the far corner, and the shadow looks small indeed. A thin, undeniably male, though still young voice, saying, "Hullo." Then, moments later, the voice says, "Oh, fuck."  
  
  
  
A/N for those confused: All right then, the whole point of this chapter was to explain how Padfoot and Prongs came to arrive at Harry's little corner of the universe. It was mainly because multiple curses/hexes/etc. hit a broken time turner in Sirius' possession in unison, which did something freaky to the time turner (don't ask what, the whole shebang was just a plot device to get the people I needed to be where I needed them to be), sending both Sirius and James, who was in contact with Sirius at the time, into the future, and also through space. Don't ask how, it was just convenient for it to happen that way, and as I am the writer, I reign supreme. Shaddup little dust monkeys and scornful reviewers. The last little bit of the chapter is a result of writer's block. I couldn't seem to finish the chapter in the same format and style that the beginning of it had been written in. Well, I could. In fact, the whole chapter was written out in that style to begin with. It just seemed so. dull. Lifeless. BORING. So I switched James' first person perspective, and I think it worked out all right, all things considered. Hmm. This chapter is a great deal shorter than the others. Should I maybe name it an interlude? That could work; in fact I will. And if I'm going to start doing interludes, then I should probably write one about what's going on in the wizarding world now that Harry has disappeared, and Snape is out from public view as well (though he never really was in it). Oh, and something from the Godfather Sirius' point of view would be nice too. I'll get on that.  
  
The last little bit was also intentional in its incoherency. I am aware that the way Imperio affected James changed during the chapter. In the beginning, he was aware of what was going on, yet powerless to stop it. In the end, he couldn't seem to gather his scattered mind together enough to realize that he was under the Imperio, not to mention to remember what exactly the Imperio was. Put simply, this is because the Death Eater panicked and put entirely too much force into his curse, causing James to scatter his brain and possibly sustain permanent brain damage. But, as he's really only alive for a few more years in the normal Harry Potterverse, I figured, what the hey? Who's gonna notice if ol' Prongsie goes a bit. funny?  
  
Any more questions, e-mail me, if you must know the answer that badly. I seldom check the review board, so I probably won't see what you want to know, and I make a point not to annoy readers by using up all the space at the bottom of the fic for answers to reviewers. I'll do that at the end of the fanfic, at the very end, mind, on an entirely separate chapter than all the rest, of which no one else has to read except for maybe the too-curious reviewer. Quite. 


	5. A Little Bit of Magic Goes a Long Way

The Disclaimer. Of course. Well, this is it: I don't own. You don't sue. Simple, no? All right then. Stop hassling me.   
  
Chapter Four: A Little Bit of Magic Goes a Long Way  
  
"Oh, fuck."  
  
Harry stumbles backwards, spine slapping the wall and aching the whip marks that still haven't all healed over since the last time Lucius was too wrapped up in a torture session. He searches the shadowed planes of the face that he has only ever seen in his photo album, and he thinks, God no. It's a testament how shocked he is, that he uses the word God. He hasn't for such a long time, despising the word ever since Aunt Petunia dragged him to the Church for the first eleven years of his life.   
  
He might not be as smart as Hermione, but he knows things. He learns fast and remembers things if said things interest him. The Polyjuice potion, that had interested him. And he knew that samples couldn't be taken from someone already dead, which was why the real Mad Eye Moody had just been caged, so that new ingredients could be extracted at will. He knows that it's not possible for a Polyjuice potion of his father to pop up, anywhere, because his father is most definitely dead and rotting in the ground. So... this has to be a glamour, or an illusion, another way of Moldywart mentally destroying him.   
  
It just figures, some part of Harry thinks bitterly, I finally have a day off, and I get this. The rest of him is angry. The rest of him has to yell.   
  
"What gives you the RIGHT?! Haven't I been put through enough without this, how CAN you?! What next, my mother's corpse is dug up and paraded around and spat on and raped before me? My friends being killed while I scream in the background? Oh, wait, we've ALREADY DONE THAT. What more can you DO to me, what more? You've already taken so much, you and your DAMNED Death Eaters. God, Merlin... no. Forget this. I won't play your games anymore, I won't, I'm getting the hell out of the place, right NOW." Harry is aware distantly of some dampness falling to his hands, of something sharp digging into his palm's flesh and drawing blood. He feels an odd kind of release with each syllable that drops out of his mouth like an angry spear, and a tenseness coiling up in him as well.   
  
The... the IMPOSTER just looks at him with shocked, glazed eyes, and says, "Can you help me? Please? My friend... I think he's hurt really badly. Are there any medi-witches or medi-wizards here? Please, I need to know, I need to make him get better."  
  
Harry just stares at him, sickened disgust playing out across his face. "You can't play with me! I won't fall for any of that, I WON'T, you can't make me believe that you're not one of THEM."  
  
The imposter just steps closer to him, disheveled and slightly bloody, arms outstretched beseechingly. "Please, where ARE we? I - What happened to me?"   
  
Harry thinks, 'Why won't he just give up? I won't believe him. I won't, Voldemort has already taken everything else I've got, he can't have my belief too. I won't give that to him.' He prepares to fight against the Death Eater thrown in his cell with him, feeling the feral anger bunching up in him.   
  
But some instincts get too deeply ingrained to overcome so easily, and Harry has been conditioned the last few weeks to fear any one larger than him, anyone who can conceivably cast a spell. He flinches away, arms curling protectively around his abdomen, and he snarls. "Don't come any closer to me."  
  
The imposter falls back, a shocked look on his face. "I - I'm not going to HURT you. I'm not."   
  
Harry can almost feel the sadness that radiates off of this Death Eater, and he thinks, 'Voldemort is really training them before he sends them to me.' He looks over to the lump that is the other man. He thinks, 'That guy's barely been breathing since I've seen him. He could actually be hurt, a prop for this whole scheme. If I didn't help him, I would be worse than any of the Death Eater's here. But, if I do help him, and he dies the same way Susan and Rick did... No. I won't think about that, I won't.'  
  
Instead Harry stares intently at the man that resembles so closely his father. He scrambles, keeping his back to the wall, around the stooped over man, and slowly begins to make his way to the barely breathing one. When the imposter tries to come close to him again, he stands very still. "I could maybe help him," Harry nods towards the unconscious man. "But you'd have to stay away. If you come near, your..." he chokes on the next word, "friend won't be able to get all my concentration."  
  
The imposter nods reluctantly and backs away, huddling into a far off corner so quickly that Harry can almost believe that the Death Eater actually cares about the other man. Almost, but not quite.   
  
Harry darts down to the other man's side, brushing back tangled, silky black hair from a bruised forehead. Blood runs in thick streams from a gash on it, and Harry winces at the brutally broken nose. He quickly waves his hands over top the man's body, searching his magic out in probing, gentle tendrils to find any spot that is broken or sprain, hurt. The man's arm is definitely broken, possibly in two places. His skull has a hairline fracture that has to be dealt with, and one rib is cracked, the rest severely bruised. Harry won't have enough endurance to heal all of this.   
  
He closes his eyes and drags in a heavy breath. The head wounds are the most dangerous, as well as the cracked rib. It's got potential to break all the way and possibly pierce a lung. He'll deal with those first, and if he has anything left by the time it's done... he'll see what else he can do.   
  
Harry tugs at the magic that he can feel inside of him. It's curled up in a ball in the pit of his stomach, and waits eagerly to be called up. It amazes Harry how much magic he can feel inside of him, pouring through his veins. He brings only a little up to the tips of his fingers, struggling to keep control of it. It's easier when he's healing himself, when he doesn't have to consciously control the magic lest he burn himself or the other person out. Magic is a hard thing to control without a focus, so Harry doesn't even try. His old focus was his wand, but he doesn't know where it is now. It could be that his family has broken and burned it, but he hopes not. His new focus is his hands. He pushes and controls magic from them, a complicated way of control that uses up all his concentration, but they're all he has.   
  
Harry touches the tips of his fingers to the man's fracture first. It's right above his eye and a bruise is blossoming along it as he watches, disappearing just as fast as his fingers trace it. He sighs, feeling his energy drain away from fighting to control the magic so rigidly. He steadies his trembling fingers and moves them along the gashes, sealing up skin and smoothing away the bruises that threaten to pop up just below the surface. Harry's fingertips dance along to the man's ribs, tugging the cracked one back into place without ever touching it. He makes the bone seamless beneath the skin and is just about ready to drop dead. The energy drain is tremendous in doing this. He hasn't ever healed anyone other than himself and hadn't realized how hard it could be, how much when it had been his own body he just let the magic flow through and take care of whatever wound he had, with minimal direction.   
  
"What're you doing? Is he okay?"   
  
The imposter's anxious voice isn't helping Harry's exhaustion, but Harry can't be bothered to look up from the man he's healing to pay any attention to the other man. He instead calls up more magic, thinking that he could at least try to mend the man's broken arm, but he calls too much up, too much and it explodes in his veins like an internal bomb going off, and he feels like he's on fire from the inside, only it's cold fire, and the magic's bursting out of him.   
  
He faints.   
  
XXXXXXXX  
  
"Shift his head over a bit, that angle looks uncomfortable for his neck."   
  
"Merlin, look at his hair! What's made it so...."   
  
"Stiff? Take a really close look, Prongs. I think it's blood."   
  
"Fu-"   
  
"Language! The kid can't be more than ten, you can't swear in front of him!"   
  
"Oh, c'mon Padfoot! He's knocked out cold."   
  
"You still can't swear in front of him. But I agree. What kind of monsters would do this to the kid?"   
  
"The same monsters that made me turn against you. I'm really, really sorry about that, by the way."   
  
"I know. I heard you the first few million times. Do you think it's Death Eaters, then, that have us?"   
  
"Do you think it's not?"   
  
"Good point there. Twist his head a bit so that his neck isn't turned that way. It gives me the creeps seeing that. And maybe you should rearrange his legs a bit, they'll get stiff if he doesn't wake up soon."  
  
"Since you seem to know how, exactly, the kid's supposed to be set up, he can sleep up against you."  
  
"Hey, do you think I'd object after he healed me up? Hell no. But he seems attached to you, what with the whole slobbering all over your robes..."  
  
"Hey! You're right, he IS drooling over me, the brat."  
  
"I feel weird calling him kid and brat all the time. Why didn't you ask him what his name is?"  
  
"Well, gee Padfoot, it could have been because he was TERRIFIED of me."  
  
"While I agree that you do look particularly horrible today, that's not enough to scare a kid, let alone one that's had to live with Death Eaters for Merlin knows how long."  
  
"Yes, well, he was scared of me and I don't know why. When he finally wakes up, we can ask him. All right?"  
  
"James... How do we know that he's even going to wake up?"  
  
Harry blinks and thinks, 'No way is that Sirius' voice.' He turns a bit restlessly, and feels exhaustion pull him into sleep, which is a step up from unconsciousness.   
  
XXXXXXXXXXX  
  
Harry opens his eyes and sees pale blue ones staring down at him.   
  
"So. You're up."   
  
It's the man that he had been healing. From this angle all Harry can tell is that the man has no visible injuries anywhere. Instinctively he tries to send out probes of magic to check the injuries the man used to have, and winces when he feels the magic burn against the inside of his skin.   
  
He hears a warm chuckle from above him and feels the rumble of a chest shaking. "It's called burn-out, when you're body over-loads on magic and can't control the flow well enough to prevent it from hurting. You can still cast spells, but it hurts like hell. It doesn't usually happen when a wizard has a wand, unless the spells he's been casting are particularly hard. But, since you've been working wandless for only Merlin knows how long, it's expected that you burn out over simple magic."  
  
"Um. Okay," Harry says, unsteadily. He's very thirsty, but there are no drinks anywhere to be found. He coughs hoarsely, the dryness in his throat hurting.   
  
"I know you probably want something to drink, but me and James couldn't find anything. You'll just have to wait until we can figure a way to get out of this place. By the way, my name is Sirius. Sirius Black."  
  
Harry sits up so fast he almost pukes from the disorientation. Steadily gentle hands pull him back down-wards by the shoulders, and the voice he heard as his Godfather's through his dreams says, "Easy, kid, you gotta take it easy. You've been out for a couple of hours. It usually takes a few days for people to get over magic burn-out, but you seem like a fast healer. You'll be all right in no time, but you're not there all ready, so just take it easy in the meantime. You think you can handle it?"  
  
Harry nods, uncertain. He doesn't know what to do or say or think. This is all very odd, because the man he'd healed before was most definitely not thirty-six. He was more like nineteen, not that much older than Harry himself. It was impossible that this Sirius Black be the Sirius Black that was his Godfather, yet they had the same voice and the same gentle pressure when their hands touched him.   
  
"Is it safe for me to come out now?"   
  
Harry stiffens instantly and backs right into the supposed Sirius Black's arms. It's that Death Eater. "Be careful," he hisses to the other man. "That's a Death Eater. I think he's the one that hurt you so badly."  
  
He feels another shaking rumble and hears another chuckle. "That's not a Death Eater, that's just James. Though at times he seems as ugly and unseemly as a Death Eater, he isn't actually one."  
  
Harry shakes. "What do you mean? He can't be James Potter, not him!"  
  
"Hey," 'James' blinks, "How did you know my last name?"  
  
Harry shrinks back into the warm body behind him, closing his eyes and bending his head so he doesn't have to look at the twisted mockery Voldemort has made of the memory of his father. "I guess it was all a set-up, even your friend, Death Eater," Harry says. He's not aware of the lifeless voice he has just now, the syllables slurred despairingly as the drip out of his mouth. "I guess you're here to drive me all the way insane. Well, fine, insanity sounds like a better place than here and since I can't get out, I guess it's my only other alternative."  
  
'Sirius Black' tugs Harry closer in and hugs him from behind in what is meant to be a comforting gesture. "Hey kid, we're neither of us going to hurt you, okay? Believe that, if nothing else. Okay? Me and Prongs don't hurt kids."  
  
Harry closes his eyes. "You sound like Sirius, anyway. A lot. But if you really wanted to mess with my mind, you would look a lot like him too. I mean, I guess you could pass for him when he was around your age, but he looks way different now. Skinnier, for one, but I don't think Death Eaters really like to starve for the sole sake of their mission."  
  
"Kid," 'Sirius Black' says, exasperated, "What can we do to convince you that we're not going to kill you or try to make you nuts (here 'James' interjected by saying, "What makes you think he isn't already?")? Honestly, we don't want to hurt you." He hugs Harry tighter to emphasize his point.   
  
Harry sighs. "You can't say anything to make me fall for your tricks, Death Eater. Not a thing." He leans back even more, deciding that even if this is a particularly mind-bending Death Eater, at least he's a comfortable Death Eater. He feels so tired, he wants to sleep, but even more he feels hungry. He wishes that when the Death Eaters had come in they had at least brought in food with them. Then his eyes snap open. "What did you call your friend?"  
  
'Sirius Black' sounds puzzled and 'James Potter' takes a wary step backwards. "James," 'Sirius Black' says, quizzically.   
  
"No, before that," Harry says, and whirls himself out of 'Sirius Black's' arms. "You called him something. It started with a P." Harry desperately searches 'Sirius Black's' face and sees the scar that twitches along the man's cheekbone, exactly the same as his Godfather's. He knows that glamours can be incredibly detailed, but only when great detail is paid attention to the original person of whom the glamour is based off of. He feels hope bubble up in him.   
  
"Prongs," Sirius says, and then stumbles backwards as he receives an armful of over-enthusiastic teenage boy.   
  
XXXXXXX  
  
"Hand me that piece of wire and I'll be done in two seconds," Harry is kneeling at the cell's lock, tongue stuck slightly out of his mouth and fingers busily twisting a bent piece of wire in the lock. Sirius stands slightly behind him, bemused, and James stands way in the back of the cell. James still doesn't know quite what to do around the odd boy that impulsively hugs Sirius after accusing him, and continues to ignore James.   
  
Sirius hands Harry the piece of wire, and Harry inserts it into the lock, jimmying it for a second, and all three inhabitants of the cell hear a click.   
  
"Now we can get out of here."  
  
Sirius starts to walk out of the cell, but can't make it past the threshold. Harry groans. "Not again!"  
  
XXXXXXX  
  
James shifts uncomfortably. He feels incredibly excluded as he watches the boy Harry and his supposed best friend laughing together at the other end of the cell. He doesn't know if he's welcome to come over, and doesn't want to risk upsetting the boy to find out. Harry seems like an unnaturally paranoid child, but James supposes that's normal when someone spends too much time among the Death Eaters - which brings to mind a big question of his.   
  
How did Harry come to be in the Death Eaters' presence?   
  
James shifts again, wincing as his stomach growls. He hasn't eaten anything since breakfast and feels kind of hungry now. Well, really hungry. He looks around the cell that he came out of the Imperio in, curious, and winces. It's not much more than a hole in the wall, kind of disgusting, really filthy. He wonders how long Harry's been living here, and winces again.   
  
He looks over in Harry and Sirius' direction again, and manages to lock gazes with Harry. Harry's eyes widen and he blinks. James blinks as well, from recognition more than anything else. He could swear that he's seen eyes like Harry's before, that exist same shade. He shakes the feeling off, and looks back down at his hands. He strains his ears to hear what Sirius and Harry are talking about now.   
  
"How're you feeling now?" Sirius touches a large, calloused hand to Harry's elbow. James resists the urge to deck his best friend, and doesn't know why he feels it in the first place.   
  
"A bit better," Harry answers, blinking up at Sirius. James swears he has heard a voice so much like Harry's before, somewhere. "I think I'll be able to break the binding spell on you guys soon."   
  
"Yeah, about that. How is it that you can cast such complicated spells without a wand? I mean, I know that certain wizards that have practiced over and over can do things like I've seen you do, but you're still so young."   
  
Harry shrugs, his thin shoulders rising and falling heavily. "It was either figure out how to heal myself or die. Actually, I've only recently learned how to do it... ever since I got here, I mean. When I lived with my family, I never knew how to cast wandless magic, though I suppose a child I let it loose uncontrolled. Accidental magic, you know."  
  
Sirius grins. "Yup. My family's Muggle, so they didn't know what to make of it when I started making things burn or float. Scared them witless, I did." The two of them share a secret, tentative sort of smile, and James feels a surge of jealousy.   
  
He doesn't know why he feels like Harry belongs to him and doesn't understand why he really, really wants to be where Sirius is sitting right now, but he does.   
  
"Harry, what're you doing here anyway? I mean," Sirius falters uncertainly, "I mean, why do the Death Eaters want YOU?"  
  
Harry looks down. "I'm not sure why I'm here. They don't tell me anything... Well, Morpheus talks a lot and we have a lot of strange discussions about really odd things. And Sev - he's okay. When he's not pouring some new poison down my throat, I mean. But I get the feeling that the only person who knows why I'm here is Voldemort."  
  
James blinks. It's so strange to hear that name coming out of a child's mouth, when so many grown men and women are afraid to utter it. He wonders who told Harry to speak out despite fear. He and Sirius both learned to name Voldemort underneath Dumbledore's tutelage, and it had taken a lot of subtle probing before they'd gotten that far.   
  
"Well," Sirius says. "Do you know why WE'RE here? Or how we even got here?"   
  
Harry shakes his head. "I've got a suspicion or three, but I'm not sure. When we get to Dumbledore, then we'll ask him. He'll know. Or maybe we could ask Sev, he should know as well."  
  
"Wait," James says, because it has to be said. "Isn't Sev a Death Eater?"  
  
Harry very carefully doesn't look in James' direction as he shakes his head, eyes intent on the floor. "Not quite. It's... complicated. But Sev is all right. And he'll know the best escape routes out of here for you guys to get through." He stands and stretches a bit, and James can feel a slight tingling that means that magic's happening, and he still gets such a big kick out of it. He's only been able to feel magic for the last few months, brought to a new level in spell-casting by his Auror training and subsequent cases. "I think I'm okay to break the binding spells on you guys."   
  
"Are you sure?" Sirius looks carefully at Harry, judging the boy's stance and the clarity of his eyes. Of both of them, Sirius is the one who's experience magical burnout the most often, and the one who has to recuperate for days just to get back to normal. It seems inconceivable to both of them that Harry can recover in just a few hours.   
  
Harry bites his lip as he stares at the space around Sirius. "Yeah, I'm sure. I've felt a little like this before, like I'm on the verge of a burnout. But I've still been able to work magic with it, so I should be able to do this little thing."  
  
"From what you said about it, it's not a simple thing," Sirius says. "Why don't you just show us how to cast the spell so we can try on our own? We've both had some training in wandless magic."  
  
Absently, Harry shakes his head. "No, that doesn't work quite the way you're thinking of. And I don't think I could teach you the spell since I don't know it. I guess I could try to teach you how I do break the spell, but I don't know how long that'll take and we do have to be out of here soon. So just let me do this so we can all get out of here before the rat bastard comes back to take me."   
  
James idly wonders who the 'rat bastard' is, but stays silent. The one time he has spoken up, Harry didn't look at him, and he feels kind of like he's terrorized the kid.   
  
Harry is swiping at the around surrounding Sirius, his fingertips glowing with magic as they make swift motions. Harry does this repeatedly for a few minutes, then sighs back, exhausted. "There, you're free to go." He looks over at James and clears his throat semi-nervously. "Do you mind coming over here? My knees feel a bit weak."  
  
James obligingly steps closer to the boy and the concerned Sirius hovering at Harry's side. He stops in front of Harry and waits, eyes downcast.   
  
He feels the tingling of magic arcing across his arms and legs, torso and head. He looks up and sees Harry's face lit up with the glow of magic and sees long fingers, their tips filled with magic. Harry starts to breathe harder, then takes in a very long breath and exhales all at once.   
  
"Okay, we're all good to go. So let's go."   
  
Harry stumbles his way out of the cell, and both Sirius and James hesitate to help the overly independent boy. They instead walk behind him, following Harry down the dim hallways that are lit solely by torches. As they walk along, James is hit with disturbing thoughts: What if Harry is a spy left here to get all the information he can about the Light side's defenses? What if Harry's leading them both to their deaths? And, if Harry can leave his cell so easily, why hasn't he already escaped?  
  
He whispers them to Sirius as they walk along behind Harry, but Sirius only glares at him. "When he healed me, he used himself to do it Prongs. I could feel that, even half-dead; I'd know if he were a mini Death Eater."  
  
James quiets and lets Sirius walk ahead with increasingly long strides till he's walking side by side with Harry. "Well, I didn't want to think that way, but one of us had to consider all the possibilities," he mutters to himself.   
  
He has to almost run to keep the two in front of him within eyesight as they continue to walk fast-paced. It's amazing how Harry can walk so quickly, given that he does so with a limp. James wonders what the story behind that is, and then decides that he doesn't want to know. He hears the muted voices of Harry and Sirius ahead of him, but can't quite make out the words.   
  
They turn down a corridor, and then stop at a door. Harry looks at Sirius, then back at James, and sort-of smiles. "Well, it's now or nothing, I suppose." He lifts a bony arm up to knock on the door, but it opens without him ever touching it.   
  
A familiar face stares down at Harry and James has to choke down a gasp. Sev is Severus Snape, his long time rival.   
  
"What," Snape snaps, "have I told you about wandering around while I'm not there?! It's not safe as long as this castle is filled with brain numb maggots who think that you're only here to entertain them! Get in here before anyo..." Snape's voice trails off as he notices the two other men with Harry. He blinks, examines each face carefully. Blinks again.   
  
Harry takes the initiative and walks past him, into the dungeon-type room. Sirius and James follow him, and leave Snape standing, open-mouthed, at the door. James has to think about what Snape looks like now, haggard and tired and so much older than the man he saw last month, in passing glance. A month can't change a man that much, he thinks, and he's right.   
  
Harry has settled down on a stool that's set up near a wall, and Sirius takes the chair next to him. James is left standing with nowhere to sit, so he leans against a wall instead. Snape finally snaps out of whatever put him in such an odd mood and closes the door. He looks at Sirius and James again, then at Harry.   
  
"What's the meaning of this?"   
  
Harry grins. It's the first real one James has seen so far, and the way it changes the kid's face shocks him. "I was hoping you could tell me, Sev."   
  
The only person that James can remember ever calling Snape 'Sev' is Lily, and she only said it occasionally, when she was being friend-Lily to him, not Gryffindor-Head-Girl-Lily-who-really-does-have-to-be-a-bitch-as-it's-a-requirement. He barely tolerated it from her, and seems to take it from Harry without an eye-blink. James wonders what kind of relationship the two have.   
  
Snape closes his eyes. "Only you, Harry, could bring Potter and Black into this entire mess."  
  
"So it is them, then?" James and Sirius both start at the desperate hope naked in Harry's voice. Snape opens his eyes and looks at Harry, smiling fondly and shaking his head. The smile alone throws James off his stride.   
  
"Yes, it is. The minute I recognized who they were I cast a recognition spell to see if they were really Death Eaters in disguise, but it's really them. Somehow, it's them." Snape snorts in disgust. "Only they would find a way to travel decades through time."  
  
"Time-travel." Harry nods, disregarding the shocked looks on both James and Sirius' faces. "I thought so. I wasn't sure if they were actually Death Eaters or not when I first met them, but then Sirius said 'Prongs', so I knew it had to be them."   
  
Snape is suddenly still, then snaps out angrily, pacing the carpet to the ground, "Harry, you're an idiot. The rat could have informed them of the old nicknames; they could have killed you while your back was turned. Or worse."  
  
Harry's face pales as well, but he sticks his chin up against Snape's tirade. "Well, they're not Death Eaters, you just said so yourself. So what do we do about them?"  
  
Snape finds a spot far away from the still-shocked James and slumps to the ground. "I don't know what we CAN do. It's inconceivable that this should happen. Really, it is. We don't know how they got here, so we can't exactly send them back. We don't know who knows that they're here, and we don't know anything about why they're here. This is the problem with time-traveling, there are so many places where it can all go wrong."  
  
Harry leans back against the wall. "We can get them out right?"   
  
Snape shakes his head. "They tormented me when we were in Hogwarts together. They tried to KILL me. Why, pray tell, should I HELP them?"  
  
"Sev," Harry says earnestly and leans forward. "You'll help them."   
  
Snape sighs.   
  
"You'll help them, Sev. You'll whine and complain, but you will help them. So let's just bypass the whining and complaining part and go straight to the helping, hmm?"  
  
Snape sighs again, and pushes himself up. "All right. I'll help them." He takes a closer look at James and Sirius. "But maybe first we should make sure they're still alive. They haven't moved for the last five minutes. I don't think Black has even blinked."  
  
XXXXXXX  
  
"So. What you're saying is that the broken time-turner reacted to the curses being thrown at us and pushed us forward through space and time, landing us right outside the castle that currently houses Voldemort and his Death Eaters. That's crazy enough to actually be the truth."   
  
Snape glares at Sirius, but can't seem to work up the energy to actually insult him. "Yes, if you want the simplistic version of it, that's what it all boils down to."  
  
James leans forward, glaring at Snape. "I don't believe that. If it's true that Voldemort has been alive all this time, fifteen or sixteen years to hear you tell it, he would have taken over completely already, or we'd have killed him by now. You two are lying."   
  
Snape snorts, takes a deep breath as if to sharply retort, but Harry beats him to it.   
  
"Actually, Voldemort has been dead for a while. I killed him that first time. Then, just a few months ago, I brought him back to life. So, really, this is all my fault. And I'm more sorry for it than you'll ever know."   
  
  
  
A/N: All right, I know that this is a shorter chapter than most of the others. I'll make the next few chapters longer to compensate, I promise! But it was rushed because I wanted to finish it now since I promised certain people it would be done this week, and I will have absolutely no access to a computer for the next few days.   
  
Thanks to all those who e-mailed and told me that they were eagerly awaiting the next chapter, you prodded me to actually write. Unfortunately, not in this series... but you still got me to write. I won't say sorry, because I have been a busy little worker bee on some of my other projects, but I do regret that I made everyone wait for an update. I know how incredibly frustrating that can be.   
  
The next chapter will be up much sooner than this one was, I promise you all. Thanks again for your e-mails and reviews (I reply to e-mails, and will reply to reviews at the end of this series).   
  
And this will be rewritten sooner or later, just wanted to give you guys something to read. I didn't check the grammar or anything, so it's all pretty rough... Sorry for that. 


	6. Interlude 2: While the Cat Meaning Harry...

Obviously, this fic has now turned AU (not that it wasn't already in terms of character). Enjoy, and don't worry, regularly scheduled Harry-Snape- AlternateJames&Sirius will reappear in two chapters.  
  
Interlude No. 2  
  
Summer of '94, Early June  
  
From the Pen of Hermione Granger:  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
How have you been? I've barely heard a word from you this last week and I was starting to get worried.  
  
Everything here is all right. Mum and Dad have been debating whether or not they want to go visit Grandmum and Granddad at their cottage in Wales. If they go, they'll be giving me the option of coming with or staying at a friend's house. I was thinking about writing to Ron and asking if I could stay there, or maybe going off to visit Viktor, as my grandparents don't know anything about my magic, not really, and it would be quite awkward for me there.  
  
I found the most fascinating book the other day, all about the history of house elves. I think it could really help support some of my campaigns to get them equal and fair treatment in the wizarding community. Once I've finished taking notes and cross-referencing some of the chapters with a few of my other books, I'll send it over to you. You usually have good insight about these things.  
  
Before I forget, I was talking with Parvati the other day (we ran across each other at Diagon Alley, while we were getting fitted for new robes), and in between talking rubbish about the newest, hottest wizard model, and the best hair spells and lotions, etcetera, etcetera, I learned a few interesting facts about what is going to be going on at Hogwarts this year. Apparently 'Vati knows because her parents are Unspeakables and her mum specializes in security. I can't tell you through this letter, but if we meet up soon I'll fill you in then.  
  
I'll let you know where I'll be as soon as I figure out so Hedwig'll know where to go.  
  
Hugs,  
  
Hermione.  
  
Written by the Thrice Broken Pencil (Mostly Because Dudley Sat on It) Now in the Possession of Harry Potter:  
  
Hermione,  
  
Sorry I haven't written much lately. I've had a hard time finding paper and something to write with. My Uncle locked up all my supplies this year, so fast I didn't even have time to get my wand out of my robe pocket before he was yanking it off of me. All my stuff is locked up in my former room, so I don't think I'll even be able to do my homework this summer. It's a wonder that Hedwig was left alone, but I think that Uncle Vernon was afraid she'd make a racket if he pushed her into the cupboard under the stairs with the rest of my 'abnormal, freakish rubbish'.  
  
I finally sneaked into Dudley's room and stole a workbook of his that has never been used. If you turn this page over you'll see math equations that are Primary school level and he still doesn't understand, not really. I found a pencil too, underneath the sofa, but it's wearing down fast and I don't have a pencil sharpener. So this'll be a sort of short letter.  
  
If you go to Ron's house this summer, I may be able to drop by for a few days. It all depends, really, on my Uncle's mood. Professor Dumbledore has left all of those type of decisions up to him, though I'm not sure why, and Uncle Vernon has said that if I don't do anything strange for the next few weeks I'll be able to stay a weekend or something at the Weasleys. I think he would want to get rid of me permanently except for the fact that he just found out that he can be compensated for having taken care of me all these years. He's milking it for all that it's worth. He's also kept me locked up so that I don't try to run away like I did in Third Year, though that honestly wasn't my fault.  
  
I don't think you should send me your new book. If Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia see it, they'll probably burn it. They threatened to do that to anything of mine that they found out of the cupboard, so I haven't even dared pick the lock to get my textbooks. If I don't get my Potions assignment done, I can just imagine the look on the slimy git's face in September.  
  
I recently got a letter from Professor Lupin and 'Snuffles'. They're doing fine and have assembled the old crowd, I've been told. The full moon's coming up and I'm worried for Moony, but he'll have Padfoot with him this time, so I imagine they'll be fine. Professor Lupin has invited me to his house for Christmas this year: maybe I'll go. He also said that you and Ron could come as well, if neither of you wanted to go home.  
  
Aunt Petunia is thumping at my door. I have to go. I'll try to send another letter soon, and maybe find a new pencil while I'm at it. Could you give me just a hint about Parvati's news?  
  
Harry.  
  
From the Pen of Hermione Granger:  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
I think it's horrible how the Dursleys are treating you! They aren't making you go on Dudley's diet again, are they? I'm sending you a parcel of food just in case. I'm sure you'll find someplace to hide it. Let me know if you need any more.  
  
As for where I'll be for the next two weeks or so: I've decided to go with my parents and visit with my grandparents for a few days, three at the least, and then portkey over to Bulgaria where Viktor will pick me up and spend a few days with him and his family. Then I'll portkey back to England and stay with the Weasleys for the rest of the time, which will be about a week. Everything has been pretty much arranged by now, so if you could make your way to Ron's in about a week's time, then I could tell you Parvati's news.  
  
Well, I'm quite sure that my parents will want me home for the actual Christmas eve and day, but for the rest of the break, I'll hop on over to Professor Lupin's. I'm sure both he and Snuffles are doing fine, so you needn't worry.  
  
Who do you think will be our new DADA teacher this year? I'm betting on someone from the old crowd that Professor Dumbledore told Moony and Padfoot to drag together. I hope that it will be someone not evil or incompetent for a change. We will need all the preparation we can get for what's coming soon. Your scar hasn't been hurting too much lately, has it?  
  
I've been writing to Ron and he told me to tell you to write to him soon else he'll send a howler to your house. He's quite annoyed that you've been ignoring him lately, but I explained that it was probably just because you don't have anything to write with or on, and also pointed out that he hasn't been writing very much at all to you. He's in an over-all bad mood because the twins are using him as their primary guinea pig. They used to use Ginny as well, but she did something that scared them so much they backed off. If you want details, I suggest going to her for them. Whatever tips she has could prove useful in getting the twins to back off with their numerous practical jokes.  
  
I got the Daily Prophet this morning and Rita Skeeter is back at it, making up new and improved lies to tell the whole of the wizarding world. At least they're no longer harmful or scandalous lies, however, so I'm sure that my hold over her is still strong. The whole animagus business of the last few years has brought in my mind an idea that I'm already researching. Again, when we all meet up at Ron's, I'll tell you and him. I'm sure you'll both be eager to start training for it.  
  
It's too bad that I won't be able to send you the book I wanted to, but it can wait a while longer. I've got to talk to Dobby and Winky about it anyway. Some of the plans I've made up may be too radical for them to go along with; you know how house elves can be.  
  
Along with the parcel of food I've enclosed a pad of paper, a pencil, two pens, and a sugar quill. You no longer have any excuse not to keep in touch with either myself or Ron. Write again soon.  
  
Hugs,  
  
Hermione.  
  
From the Tip of a Sugar Quill Belonging to Harry Potter:  
  
Hermione,  
  
Thanks loads for sending the food and paper and pens and things. They were a lifesaver, literally. I was starting to feel like keeling over in hunger. Yes, they have got Dudley on a new diet proposed by the Smeltings' School Nurse, which doesn't seem to be decreasing Dudley's size any less. I think this could be because he sneaks downstairs while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are sleeping and steals some jam and scones and things to eat up in his room. If only I could do that! But Uncle Vernon locks my door at night, so that's difficult.  
  
The diet is a purely liquid one. You would not believe how fast my body uses up all the energy in the 'protein' shakes that Dudley and I have to drink. I'm hungry again in about fifteen minutes, especially since Dudley usually drinks all of his share and half of mine as well.  
  
The chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies were wonderful. Did you make them? And I really liked the banana bread.  
  
I'll try to make my way to Ron's, but as I said, Uncle Vernon has tightened the leash. I'm getting so restless being cooped up in this one tiny room all the time, with only Hedwig and the spiders for friendly company. I know Dumbledore said not to leave the house unless for an important reason, like a life or death situation, but I'm going stir crazy locked up in here. I'm thinking of sneaking out tonight through the window. Thankfully Uncle Vernon hasn't put the bars back in, so aside from the drop to the ground, it should be pretty easy to get out. My problem will be getting back in, but I think I can probably climb the pipe up the outside wall, jump to the window ledge, and get back inside. I've been planning this for a while.  
  
I wrote to Ron just last night, so he shouldn't have anything to complain about. Oh! Here's Pig. Give me a second while I read the letter Ron sent.  
  
Okay, I'm done. Ron was pretty angry that I hadn't written earlier, but not as angry as I thought he would be. He said that the latest twin prank being tested out on him made his eyes grow out of his head in antenna fashion, his skin turn into scales, and his vocal chords changing in shape so the only sound he could make was 'crick, trick, crick'. It finally wore off after two days or so, but everyone is still making jokes about it. At least he didn't turn into a spider, because then he would have been REALLY angry and freaked out.  
  
Ron also says that he'll be staying with his family this year for Christmas, and that Mrs. Weasley was planning on inviting me along as well, but since I've decided on going to Professor Lupin's, that Ron and Ginny, if she wants to, can come and visit for a few days in the Christmas Break.  
  
And no, my scar hasn't been hurting very much lately, so there's no need to worry.  
  
Harry.  
  
From the Pen of Hermione Granger:  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
We've just arrived at my Grandparents. Grandmum is a year or two older than Granddad and is slightly senile. She makes excellent cookies, however, and has a beautiful singing voice. Grandpa told me that she's been looking forward to seeing me for so long since I was ten the last time I saw them, and she used to dote on me when I was younger. I've been given the guest room that looks out over a small pond, populated this summer by two mallards. Sometimes I amuse myself by throwing bits of bread out to them and watching them duck to eat them.  
  
How did your late night adventure go? I don't think you should have done it, but since Hedwig only just found me, I suppose this letter won't come in time to stop you. At least you'll have gotten the chance to breathe some fresh air, I imagine, but I do hope you were extremely careful getting out of the house and climbing back in.  
  
Those twins are getting worse every year we've known them, no matter what's going on in the world around them. They don't seem to notice that there's a war brewing; poor Ron, having to endure them. When I go to stay with them in a week, I'll have to have a long talk with Ginny to see what she did to make them so terrified of her. Do you know if you'll be able to make it to the Weasleys yet?  
  
I have to go, Grandma wants help with her cookies.  
  
Hugs,  
  
Hermione.  
  
From the Pen of Hermione Granger:  
  
Harry,  
  
Why haven't you written back yet? It's been almost a week; I'm in Bulgaria now, with Viktor. Has Hedwig been unable to find his home? I've sent the address with this letter in case.  
  
Viktor's hometown is a very pleasant place, rustic and with the smell of magic all about it. His family finds me 'charming', as Natalya (Viktor's elder cousin) informs me, and his Mother is delighted with all the charms I can do. She tells me with her hands, since she can't speak English nor I Bulgarian, how impressed she is with me. Viktor's Uncle, Tradenov, is a very shifty fellow who very obviously doesn't think my presence is appropriate. I have the feeling that he may be Dark; his daughters are hardly any better. Their names are Katya and Irina; his son has a strange disposition, and I rather think that he may be mad. Viktor is constantly at my side whenever this family comes visiting, and I get the feeling that he fears for my safety. He certainly acts in an overprotective fashion, which would infuriate me if it weren't so endearing and sweet.  
  
We've taken to flying over the countryside on his broom; initially I was afraid that our combined weight would cause us to crash, but Viktor assured me that I weighed less than a feather, and I must say I'm glad I listened to him. The view is breathtaking; One day, when all of us are over this madness that is beginning, we'll have to take a vacation to see the sights in the country.  
  
Please tell me how your life has been; I'm really eager to see you and Ron and Ginny, to go to Diagon Alley, to catch up with Snuffles and Professor Lupin.  
  
Write back promptly!  
  
Hugs,  
  
Hermione.  
  
From the Pen of Hermione Granger:  
  
Harry, don't be a jerk!  
  
You haven't answered for the longest time, and you were supposed to meet the Weasleys in London; Ron told me that you'd already set everything up with them! Mrs. Weasley's going out of her mind with worry, never mind about Ron, Ginny, the twins, and Mr. Weasley! If the Dursleys wouldn't give you a ride, you should've told Ron or sent a letter, or something! Everyone's getting really worried by now.  
  
Just write back, okay? We're supposed to be going to Diagon Alley tomorrow and it wouldn't feel the same without you. If you don't write back, I'm going to send a letter to Snuffles and Professor Lupin, and I know you hate worrying both of them.  
  
Hermione.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////  
  
Hermione Granger watched the small owl that belonged to Ron Weasley speed off into the daytime sky. Her teeth worried at her lower lip, and she nervously pulled on a lock of hair. The letter she'd just sent off had sounded mostly angry, but she was truly very worried. It wasn't like Harry to not answer his mail, not counting the summer before Second Year, which hadn't been his fault because of Dobby.  
  
Ron, who'd grown even more and towered high above the shorter witch, laid his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. Best friends since mid-way into First Year, they made up two-thirds of the trio that consistently helped to save Hogwarts: School of Magic, and were also the main confidantes of one wizarding hero Harry Potter. They understood the worry that each underwent every time something strange happened because of Harry or around him.  
  
"Hedwig probably caught cold or something," Ron said comfortingly. "And Harry just didn't want to send her out when she was feeling below the weather. That's something he'd do." His voice was a low rumble; it was another of Ron's traits that had changed since Hermione had seen him last, before a normal boy voice, now transitioning into a mature, deep one.  
  
She leaned back into him, and murmured, "I hope so."  
  
The atmosphere in the Weasley household that night, and the night after, was tense and unmanageable, everyone filled with the knowledge that someone each and every one of them considered family might be in serious trouble. They all waited in stiff anticipation for the white feathers of Hedwig to come swooping in through the open window, bringing with her a letter.  
  
Mrs. Weasley masked her unease with brisk efficiency and strained cheerfulness, comfortably managing to put enough food on the table to feed two girls, six boys, one man, three owls, and herself. In fact, all she seemed to be doing the entire time since Hermione had arrived was cooking, frying and baking and mixing with a single-minded intensity that was almost scary.  
  
Ginny kept herself mostly out of the way of everyone's path, often disappearing into her room to be alone. When Hermione joined her, which wasn't often as Ron needed her as much as she needed Ron, Ginny smiled slightly, but didn't go out of her way to make Hermione feel welcome. She painted quite frequently, but would never let anyone see a finished product. Every morning she'd read the Daily Prophet cover to cover; every time she saw Ron, she'd ask, 'any news then?' She was waiting on word from Harry, or about him, in her own, quietly unobtrusive fashion.  
  
The twins were feverishly working on new products, much to the dismay of Mrs. Weasley and particularly Ron, whose temper was snapping frequently. Hermione wanted to tell the twins to back off until Harry was around, because Ron didn't mind being the guinea pig for their pranks half as much when Harry was there to calm him down. Harry was quite good at calming Ron down; Hermione only seemed to make him angrier, and so she avoided him mostly when he went on his fury-fueled rampages. Hermione noticed that the twins seemed strangely subdued, even in their fervor of invention; she thought, perhaps whimsically, that they too felt the absence of Harry's presence.  
  
Percy, who still hadn't moved out, was quite the twitchy individual. He even had the strangest tic under his left eye, and he seemed to seldom get much sleep. He barely left his room, not even when Bill and Charlie attempted to drag him out. When Hermione woke in the middle of the night and went to the hall bathroom to get a glass of water, she saw a light peeking out from the space in between Percy's door and the floor. When she'd first arrived at the Weasley house, she'd asked Ron what was going on with Percy, and had been answered with a brusque shrug and a 'Prolly just Ministry business. Don't ask him, because then he'd tell you'.  
  
Bill and Charlie, who were visiting again this summer, disappeared for a few days at a time. They came back looking tired and either very pleased with themselves, or grimly hopeful. They never left at the same time, and so one was always at the Weasley's the entire time Hermione had been there. Charlie's burn scars from the dragons he'd taken loving care of showed more vividly than ever before, and Hermione surmised it was because the tan he'd always had, ever since she'd met him, was fading in the not-so-hot English weather. Bill, too, was becoming paler, though he looked no less cool.  
  
The trip to Diagon Alley, the one that Hermione had mentioned in her letter, didn't happen. When the day for it came, everyone made out like they were too busy to actually go; Hermione knew the truth, that no one wanted to go when Harry wasn't with them, when a letter from him might come in while they were gone. No letter came, and Pig finally made it back, Hermione's letter still in his talons. Even more alarmingly, Hedwig followed after him, hooting tiredly.  
  
While they fed Hedwig, Hermione and Ron exchanged worried glances. Hedwig would never have left Harry unless she had a letter to deliver, and she had brought no letter. "Snuffles?" Hermione made the single word a question.  
  
"Snuffles." Ron answered.  
  
Hermione wrote the actual letter, though a lot of the words came from Ron's mouth. They sent it off with Hedwig, and silently hoped that Sirius would have all the answers, would have, more importantly, Harry safe with him.  
  
Two days later they learned this was not the case, when Hedwig swept back to Ron's room, a scrap of paper bearing Sirius' conspicuous writing on it. Ron grabbed it first, read it, then passed it on to Hermione with grave eyes.  
  
It said, simply, "Flourish and Blotts, Thursday, 2:30." That was in two days; Hermione didn't know how they were going to get anyone to take them into Diagon Alley. Ron didn't either; but he wasn't going to let that stop him. He said, "We can just go by ourselves through the Floo. Mum'll be furious for sure, but she'll get over it. I know that we can't get Perce or Bill or Charlie to take us, because they'd never leave our sides, and Dad won't have time to take us because of Ministry business."  
  
Hermione nodded. "It would be the safest thing, for Snuffles, if we went alone."  
  
Ron grinned, though it didn't look to be a particularly healthy grin, and said, "Maybe we can stop off by Zonko's and get something to prank the twins with, to get back at them for using me as their experiment tester."  
  
As it was, they very nearly didn't make it to Flourish and Blotts on time. Hermione supposed it was some kind of universal law that whenever one tried to make a quiet escape from an unconventional, unlikely prison, all sorts of factors conspired to disrupt the attempt. First, Ginny had decided it was time to let loose all her worries and insecurities, and kept Hermione busy until noon sobbing all over her and saying how badly she felt over being the youngest child, the only girl, how alone she always was, how much she loved Harry, and she was so miserable Hermione hadn't the heart to tell her to stop whining about it and take proactive action.  
  
Ron finally broke in on it, storming into their shared room with bright purple and green polka-dotted hair, pale carrot-orange skin with blue freckles, and neon pink teeth. He snarled at Ginny and said, "Get out, I need Hermione to uncurse me." Ginny, who'd been staring slack-jawed at Ron since he'd made his entrance, started to giggle and wouldn't stop, the sound strange coming from a girl who'd been sobbing her eyes out only a few seconds previous. Ron growled again, then shoved Ginny, not ungently, from the room. He took Ginny's position sitting on the bed, and groaned. "I can't go out in public looking like this!"  
  
Hermione made a shushing noise. "I happen to think you look quite colourful," she soothed him. Then she frowned, and said, "You know, Ginny's going to remember in a few seconds that none of us are allowed to use magic over the summer, and she'll come back to yell at you."  
  
Ron grinned, quite suddenly, and grabbed her hand, tugging her up. "I know. That's why we're making a break for the chimney now, before she comes back to use your shoulder for crying on."  
  
They made it halfway down the hallway when Percy's seldom-opened door opened. He stood in the doorway, hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot and weary, and said, "I need you to get Dad to come home; and make me a cup of coffee. Thank you," and retreated back into his room.  
  
Hermione and Ron exchanged a strange glance, and held a furiously whispered conversation.  
  
"We can't waste anymore chances," Ron hissed, hunching down for easy access to Hermione's ear.  
  
"But it could be important! None of us know what Percy's been doing; he hasn't been going to work and he stays up all night, and your parents are really anxious about him. If he says that your dad has to come home, then we should get your dad to come home!"  
  
Ron sighed, shut his eyes, and rubbed his forehead tiredly.  
  
As it turned out, the three cups of coffee that Hermione brewed grew cold while they waited for the Ministry office to connect them with Mr. Weasley. The receptionists kept on re-routing their call to another desk, and not to Mr. Weasley's, until Hermione started screaming enough like a banshee that it brought back Pig's repressed childhood memories of a close call, and made him flap frantically around the kitchen, squawking feverishly. He knocked into all three of the lukewarm cups of coffee, and, when trying to clean up the mess with magic (illegal as it may be, Hermione just didn't give a damn any more), Hermione somehow managed to transform the litre or so of coffee puddling on the floor into an ankle-covering sludge of brown goo which smelt slightly of cinnabars.  
  
"Bullocks!"  
  
Hermione's muffled curse somehow coincided with Mr. Weasley finally coming to the fire-call. Arthur's face creased in mild concern. "Ron, Hermione? What're you doing? Is everything all right at home?"  
  
Ron slumped tiredly over, and delivered his message. "Perce says you need to come home now. Please."  
  
Arthur immediately tensed up. "Did he mention why?" He seemed to think to himself, then said quickly, before Ron could reply, "Never mind, that doesn't matter. I'll be there as soon as possible. Tell your mother that we'll need an early supper tonight, all right? And a large lunch would be good as well." Arthur's head winked rapidly out of view.  
  
Hermione stared grimly at the sludge. "I don't know about you, Ron, but I'm about done running other people's errands. I'm about done making coffee. And I think your father," her voice, rising, sounded particularly ominous, "can tell your mother," and was now reaching almost shrieking levels, "himself that he needs HER TO COOK MORE THAN SHE ALREADY HAS BEEN!!!"  
  
"Quite right," Ron agreed hastily. "It's almost two. Let's just hop through Floo, all right? The Burrow can stand without us, and Snuffles would be quite upset with us if we didn't make an appearance."  
  
And so that was what they did.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////  
  
Sirius, in animagus form, led Ron and Hermione down a dark alley. He turned back into a wizard in an eye-blink, and his face was more haunted than ever before. His lips did quirk ever so slightly when he saw Ron, though. "Nice colouring," he commented, and Ron's cheeks flamed a darker orange.  
  
"Twins," was all Ron would say, and Sirius nodded understandingly.  
  
He raised his wand just a bit, and grabbed Hermione's shoulder. "Hold Ron's hand," he told her. "We're Apparating."  
  
Ron and Hermione exchanged frightened, but determined looks, and grasped each other's hands tightly. They closed their eyes, and breathed deeply, and when their eyes had opened once again, they were in the familiarity of the Shrieking Shack. It had a small round table in its middle, with five chairs arranged around it. Sirius took one of them, and Ron and Hermione another two.  
  
Sirius' right-hand fingers drummed restlessly against the table-top. There was a deep, profound silence. Then, "Harry's been missing for a while now, as I'm sure you know. You and the rest of the Weasleys." Sirius' shoulders sagged. "Voldemort's taken him."  
  
Hermione felt her vision turning spotty, and turned someone breathing harshly nearby; later she realized it had been the combined gasps of her and Ron, being breathed out in unison. "Wh – what?"  
  
"Voldemort," Sirius repeated. "But Harry's not dead, not yet, and we're doing all we can to find him. Me, Dumbledore, the old crowd."  
  
"How can you know?" Ron asked, his changing voice cracking as it went higher and higher in pitch. "How can you possibly bloody BELIEVE that Voldemort hasn't killed Harry yet?!" His hand, still clenched around Hermione's, turned yellow it was squeezing so hard. Hermione didn't notice the pain.  
  
Sirius looked down. "I'm his Godfather. Of course I know."  
  
Hermione found her voice. "Well, do you know where he might have been taken?"  
  
"Nowhere in England," Sirius said grimly. "We've contacted the other European Ministries, but it's been hard to get them to pay attention and to realize that Voldemort is back in power; not to mention that we only just realized that Harry's safety had been compromised a few weeks ago. It's been rough trying to cross off possible locations for him."  
  
"Too bad the Marauder's Map didn't extend past Hogwarts," Ron muttered darkly. "How'd he get taken? I thought he was protected at the Dursleys."  
  
"That's one of the main mysteries," Sirius' frown deepened. "Dumbledore swore to me that he would be protected at that house. He laid some of the most ancient and powerful protection charms on it. I can't imagine how they would have failed, or how the Death Eaters got around them."  
  
Dim horror welled up within Hermione. "I think I know how..." she whispered. She found herself the bearer of two suddenly sharp gazes, and hastily explained. "I... I, that is, he sent me a letter – his last letter to me – and he said that he was desperate to get out of the house. He said that he'd been planning on sneaking out for so long, since his uncle had kept him locked up forever and he was dying for a breath of fresh air, and I told him not to! I TOLD him not to, but he'd already gone, his letter came too late, or mine did, and oh Merlin."  
  
In the silence that ensued, Hermione could very clearly hear her own harsh breaths and Ron's gasps. Sirius sighed. "Well," he said, "that's one mystery explained." He slumped over in his chair and ran one bony hand through his shaggy hair. "I can't believe he'd be so bloody STUPID." Then, very quietly, "dammit."  
  
Ron and Hermione shared a glance, and then echoed Sirius.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////  
  
A large black dog had apparently taken up permanent residence in Dumbledore's office.  
  
Severus Snape felt distinctly uncomfortable every time he saw it. It seemed to glare at him with baleful eyes, as if it hated him. It typically stayed in its corner, however, so Snape was resigned to its presence.  
  
"You summoned me, Headmaster?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Surely by now you have learned of Harry Potter's disappearance from his Muggle family home. Traces of Death Eater magic have been found in the surrounding area, and it's believed that Voldemort currently has Harry in his possession. However, it's also believed that Harry has not been killed, so there is hope yet for his safe recovery." He steepled his fingers on his desk and looked over them to Snape. "I am well aware that he is not your favourite student, but I would hope that should the opportunity arise for his rescue the next time you are Summoned, it should be taken."  
  
Snape growled softly. "Trust that damn fool Gryffindor to get into trouble like this. Of COURSE I'll try to save him, Headmaster, but I don't know how effective I'll be. The Dark Lord has been tightening his fist around all of us. We no longer even know where we Apparate to, and we're not able to leave without his express permission."  
  
"Just try your best, Severus, and don't get yourself – or young Harry – killed."  
  
"If that was all?"  
  
Dumbledore solemnly inclined his head. "You may go. And Severus – next time you are Summoned, be careful."  
  
Snape walked out of the room, down the stairs, tossing back a casual, "Aren't I always?" behind him.  
  
As soon as the door clicked shut, the large black dog transformed into the shadowed form of Sirius Black, who immediately began to pace back and forth. "I don't trust that git," he said.  
  
"You don't have to trust him," Dumbledore said evenly, fingers still steepled. "I do."  
  
Sirius tossed him an inarticulate glance. "Whatever. That's not what I came here to talk with you about. I need a classroom."  
  
"A... classroom?"  
  
"Yes, you know - one of those places where students go and sit in desks and teachers stand up in the front and lecture them on... changing puppies into beetles, or the many contributing factors to Circe's downfall, or whatever. One of those. I need one."  
  
"To teach?"  
  
Sirius stopped pacing momentarily to glare at Dumbledore. "Of course not! If not only for the fact that all of my students would run screaming at the sight of me, what would I teach? 'How To Survive and Escape Azkaban in Ten Easy Steps'?" He breathed an exasperated sigh. "I need a classroom for a project. Preferably one of the classrooms that hasn't been used for a few decades; one that almost everyone has forgotten. Could you manage it?"  
  
Dumbledore eyed him carefully. "Yes, you'll have your classroom." He significantly paused. "You do know that the Aurors are all greatly committed to finding Harry, right? They're looking everywhere for him."  
  
Sirius growled, sounding astonishingly like Snape or just a moment. "Yes, I know, Albus. I also know that the majority of them are ineffectual doddering idiots, and that Remus is also working on it, and I trust his tracking abilities far more than theirs, and that I can't actually go out in public to search for my own bloody godson because if I tried that, I'd have a murderous mob on me in seconds. Trust me, I'm well aware of all these things."  
  
Dumbledore gave him a commiserating look. "I know it's difficult. I have maintained the lines of communication with Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons, and she has certain links to influential wizards and witches in France and Belgium. It'll be...."  
  
Sirius scowled, and Dumbledore very hastily did not say 'all right'.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////////////  
  
Ron and Hermione stepped off of the train together, staring at the familiar sight of Hogwarts in awe. Because, not so familiar, were the spiraling forms of flying dragons, dark against the dim early evening sky.  
  
"Part of Hogwarts' new protection you think?" Ron asked shakily. Hermione nodded.  
  
They stepped into a carriage with Neville and Ginny, and waited quietly to come up to Hogwarts' entrance. Ginny was wearing a smug look on her face as the three others speculated wildly about the dragons. When Ron, who'd seen that look right before she'd pulled off pranks that put the twins to shame, asked her about it, she said, "Haven't you wondered yet what Charlie's been doing all those days he wasn't at home?"  
  
Ron sputtered for a few moments. He hadn't really wondered. Apparently he should have.  
  
Then Ginny added, "Now think about what Bill's gone and done – and HE'S a curse breaker."  
  
Ron went pale.  
  
The Sorting that year was short. Not many first-years were coming into Hogwarts this year, and the Sorting Hat sang its shortest song to date. Its tone while singing was morose, and its tip folded over dejectedly. Hermione nudged Ron to get him to notice, but Ron just shrugged.  
  
When all the first years had gone to their tables (Gryffindor got eight new members), instead of Dumbledore making his traditional speech, a familiar face rose to address everyone. He was stocky and had close-cropped red hair. Burn scars criss-crossed visible flesh. Charlie Weasley.  
  
"Hullo, I'm Charlie Weasley." He grinned broadly and ruffled his hair absentmindedly. "I'm sure by now that everyone has noticed the dragons outside. I'm their handler – I feed them, make sure they go to bed on time, stop them from eating any students who happen to come across them. There are five of them, and they're here for your protection – this means that they stand guard against anything that comes from the Forbidden Forest, or from Death Eaters. This is not to say that they won't attack YOU if provoked. So please, stay clear of the beasties because it's been a long time since they've tasted wizardflesh and I'm sure that they would have no conflict of conscience if given the chance to taste it again."  
  
Hesitant clapping awarded Charlie's speech.  
  
Dumbledore stood after Charlie had sat back down, and spoke with uncommon graveness. "I trust," he said solidly, "that you all have a had a restful summer. Now is the time to learn - to learn all that you are able, and not just from the classroom. And, since I dislike long speeches, may the feast begin."  
  
This speech received no applause at all, and the students slowly began to fill their plates with food.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ///////////////////////////////  
  
Remus Lupin came in out of the cold. It was a bitter sort of cold that gnawed at the tips of his fingers, and he came into a musty sort of inn that swallowed duskily around him like the yawning mouth of some great beast.  
  
It was called 'World's End'. In it, they really did.  
  
Remus had heard about such way-places that could only be found on the darkest nights of greatest need. You had to be very close to death before you were allowed entrance into this type of inn, which spread out across a multitude of times and dimensions. You also had to be ready to pay in blood.  
  
Remus smiled pleasantly at the young woman standing behind the front desk, wearing a Muggle-type uniform and a quiet smirk. She had curly black hair and seemed to look straight into Remus before nodding. "There's a free room up the stairs and to your left. Number Two Thousand Two Hundred Twenty Eight. The Commons is open all night, and perhaps you'll find what you seek among them that speak there."  
  
"Payment?" Remus asked warily.  
  
"On your way out."  
  
Remus nodded thankfully, and walked past her and her desk into a candle- bright room that housed a flaming fireplace twice as tall as him. The room was filled with wizards, witches, vampires, sprites, and assorted other creatures, all assembled on log benches, involved in spirited debates. Among them would be Someone, as there always was in these way-places. That Someone was just who Remus had braved death for; that Someone would know where Harry was.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////  
  
There were no new Prefects. It was a disappointment for Hermione, to be sure, since it was almost guaranteed that she'd be one of them. As it was, the Sixth Year Prefects were the ones that took the First Years up to the dorms, and Ron and Hermione hung back from the rest of their House's departing the Great Hall.  
  
"It doesn't seem right, being here on the first night back without Harry," Ron said despondently.  
  
"That's because it isn't," Hermione replied. They both stared at the rapidly emptying room with unseeing eyes.  
  
"We should go," Ron said. Hermione nodded. Neither moved.  
  
Hermione swallowed thickly, and her small hand found Ron's. He squeezed it reassuringly. "Yes. We should go."  
  
They were stopped outside of the Fat Lady by Professor McGonagall, who glared down at them from behind her spectacles. "What has kept you two? I've been waiting for half an hour."  
  
"Sorry Professor," Hermione replied. "Did you need us for something?"  
  
McGonagall scowled slightly, but not at them. "Just to key you into the new security system for Gryffindor tower. It needs to know to recognize you before letting you in; if you tried to get in without being in its list, you would presumably be short by an arm for the rest of your lives."  
  
Ron and Hermione exchanged wide-eyed glances. "Guess we know now what Bill was up to," Hermione muttered.  
  
"Miss Granger, place your hand on the Fat Lady's frame, please, and say the password."  
  
Hermione put her hand on the frame, then blushed and said, "Professor, we don't know the new password. No one's told us yet."  
  
"Oh, for Heaven's sake," McGonagall rolled her eyes. "It's 'Phoenix Tears', Miss Granger."  
  
"Thank you, Professor. Phoenix Tears." Hermione's eyes widened and she went 'oh!' as her hand sank into the frame and a golden glow enveloped her. She pulled her hand free easily, and stepped back from the portrait uneasily. The Fat Lady blinked down at her owlishly.  
  
"Now you, Mister Weasley," McGonagall prompted, and Ron repeated the procedure. "There. All done. Both of you should go to bed immediately," she said after Ron's glow had faded. "You'll have a busy day tomorrow."  
  
The Fat Lady swung open and Hermione and Ron stepped through, saying quiet good nights to their Head of House.  
  
Ron headed up to his room shrouded in his own whirling thoughts. He couldn't believe Harry was so stupid. The idiot survived four years of various people trying to actively kill him, catch him, or otherwise use him for nefarious purposes, and he got himself kidnapped – even after having been extensively warned. It made Ron want to scream.  
  
Then he was in his shared room, which had beds filled with Dean, Seamus, and Neville; and two beds conspicuously empty.  
  
Bitterness in his eyes, Ron no longer felt like screaming.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////  
  
It was the witching hour.  
  
Which wasn't, in fact, at midnight; or the hour before midnight; or the hour after midnight. It was from two to four, where the barrier between night and day was the weakest. In the fields surrounding Hogwarts, where dark dragons swooped ominously, one figure cut that barrier in half and stepped through.  
  
She was the new Dark Arts Defense Professor, and she was here to get things done.  
  
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// /////////////  
  
To be continued...  
  
And no, the new DADA teacher is NOT Umbridge. 


	7. Interlude 2 Continued: And The Plot Devi...

Interlude No. 2 Continued

In Ron's dreams, Harry was always dying.

It was a tradition of restless nights that began earlier that summer and hadn't yet faded. Ron watched, with morbid fascination, night after night as Harry bled before him. Ron woke screaming at first, and later he simply charmed his room silent. He thought, upon waking, 'This could be what's happening right now, with me never knowing at all.'

Halloween was creeping up on Hogwarts, and Ron's life had settled into a sort of bleak pattern revolving around getting through the day without fighting any Slytherins – particularly Draco Malfoy. It was obscurely unfair to Ron that Malfoy Jr. got to be safe and sound in a comfortable wizarding school while Harry was… not.

The only positive points of his day were his Defense Against Dark Arts class – the new Professor was bloody wicked – and, oddly enough, the Potions class, for Snape was no longer the teacher.

"He's taken a sabbatical, haven't you heard?" Hermione's eyes glinted with her superior know-it-all-ism, even as she smiled that smile that turned her eyes all soft and made Ron go weak at the knees and queasy at the stomach.

"When'd that happen?" Ron asked haphazardly, knocked mentally askew from the sight of her mouth curving just so, her white teeth gleaming against pink, bitten lips.

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not sure. Long enough for Professor Dumbledore to arrange for someone else to come and take his place, though."

That someone else was none other than Edwin Sorsellson, a Potions master who had chosen to go into research once his training had been complete, whereas Professor Snape had gone into teaching. He was a pleasant ninety year old with an absent-minded commentary on students' skills that was permanently switched to 'on' as he leaned over various students' cauldrons. He was unlike Snape in that he didn't snap at anyone over the littlest mistake; rather, he cast fierce protective charms that only lasted the duration of the class time on each student as he or she walked into the room. He also seemed to delight in explosions and miss-made potions, claiming they were what formed the new discoveries that shaped the Potions portion of the wizarding world. As a result, Neville was his favourite student.

Ron headed for the Great Hall alone, his year mates having gone ahead. He slept in late as a result of always being afraid to go to sleep at night: he didn't want to dream anymore, and was on the verge of asking Professor Sorsellson for a Dreamless potion to ease the nightmares away – or at least numb him so that they no longer affected him as they did. He was taking a roundabout way to the Great Hall through long-deserted hallways, when he saw a disappearing, low black shadow. It looked oddly familiar, and Ron crept after it. He was seized with the sudden need to know what that shadow was.

He followed it through hallway after hallway, dimly aware that his first class of the day was beginning. As he got closer, he saw that the shadow was none other than a black dog – a large, familiar black dog. Ron frowned. Why would Sirius be at Hogwarts, and more importantly, why wouldn't Sirius let he and Hermione know if he were at Hogwarts?

Curiousity and anger further piqued, Ron kept his silence and followed.

* * *

"I don't know where he's gotten to, Professor," Hermione told the DADA instructor. "He didn't show up at lunch. Maybe he's feeling ill."

"Yeah, he didn't look too good last night," Seamus added in helpfully. He was sitting a few rows behind Hermione, next to his Hufflepuff girlfriend, Susan Bones. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had double classes once a week for Defense Against the Dark Arts. It made for a relaxed atmosphere.

Professor Nyx shrugged. "If he comes in to get his missed work before the end of the day, I suppose it would be pointless to alert his Head of House." She smiled her pointy-toothed grin.

It reminded Hermione of a shark.

Professor Stella Nyx was the youngest Professor they'd ever had at age twenty-two. She had frizzy red hair swept up under a pointed witch hat, and utterly be-freckled skin. She was short and thin, her stature resembling that of a breakable doll's, and yet she radiated a sort of McGonagallish formidability. More than that, if she were caught unawares, her startled gaze could pin a student to his place with its intensity. She hadn't been an Auror, or anything combative at all; just a supernatural expert who had spent her youth wandering around the depths of depravity all around the world instead of in a wizarding school. "I learned my magic lessons the hard way," she'd said at the beginning of the first class, and showed them all the hand imprints left on her neck. "Those were burned on when I was twelve. I was stupid, and paid a painful price for it. I hope none of you ever pay such a price."

Hermione thought she was the scariest woman she had ever met, but not in an overt way. Professor Nyx was the sort of person you'd chat with for a half an hour, chills creeping up and down your spine, and until you'd walked away from her, you'd never realize that those chills were because of her smile that threatened in a subconscious manner, or her eyes that saw straight into you and through all the lies you told yourself and everyone else. Hermione thought, 'One day, I'm going to be like her.'

They were working on their shielding charms that day, which Hermione already had down. Professor Nyx had also started them on a martial arts regimen, saying that not all dangers could or even should be dealt with magically.

"It's better to simply punch someone before he or she can cast a hex on you, than to raise your wand, think of your own hex, and cast it. The punch is much quicker, unexpected, and most importantly can knock your opponent out, thereby making it impossible for them to try to curse you again."

For Hermione and the others (of which there were three) who had already mastered the Protego charm, Professor Nyx had them do drills of aerobic exercises. Hermione grunted to Neville, surprisingly one of the other few, as they both did their sit ups, "This is bloody difficult in a robe."

"It's not like our enemy'll give us a chance to change into Muggle clothing before attacking us," Neville pointed out logically. For a moment he sounded so much like Harry that Hermione almost teared up.

She grabbed a hold of herself (metaphorically) and laughed. "I guess you're right, Neville."

* * *

"When you turn wolf, you'll let me cut off a piece of your hide?" The cadaverous man asked speculatively, sipping some of his drink – Remus found it better to forego wondering what a Nether creature would consume – and leaning across the table, invaded Remus' personal space.

"If you do what I ask of you," Remus conceded.

"Well, then," the man smiled. His teeth gleamed yellow set in rotting gums. "I assure you, that won't be a problem."

Remus had stayed in World's End for only a few days by his reckoning, but knew that in the real world, anything from a few hours to a few months could have passed him by. Way-houses of reality tended to twist time and space around themselves. Thankfully, he'd come across just who he'd needed: a Prince of the Astral Wastelands.

The man spit on the table and Remus followed suit. Their saliva mixed, glowed, evaporated in a cloud of foul-smelling vapour. "Bargain met and sealed," the man intoned. He turned completely to ash and crumbled to a small, clumpy pile. His tattered clothes remained, but Remus wasn't worried about him; he was just returning to his Realm, the only way of doing so being to cast off his 'skin'.

Remus got up from his table, and walked out of the Commons. It was time to check out, and go home. To Hogwarts.

* * *

The classroom was covered in parchment.

More accurately, it looked as if it had been turned INTO parchment, its walls and ceiling and even its floor white and drawn on. Ron had waited for the three hours since Sirius had gone into it until the black dog exited before going in himself.

"What is this?" He marveled to himself. He recognized the shapes on the walls – they were maps. Dozens and dozens and dozens of maps, of England and Spain and Germany; of all over the world. In one corner, in a neat stack, was a sheaf of parchment. Ron stepped over to take a closer look, kneeling and rifling through.

They were… notes. Notes and notes upon notes of Charms, hand scrawled in green ink. In the margins of the spells were comments, such as, 'Need to make specific to magical peoples, else too many to wade through. Even so, maybe even more specificity will be required. All magical peoples with last name Potter? Under sixteen?'

This was what Snuffles had been working on? What WAS it?

Ron thought, 'Time to get Hermione.'

He found her in the Library, steadfastly completely her homework. A line speared across her forehead as she leaned over books with a quill dripping ink. Ron knew she was worried about something by the way she didn't even notice that the quill was blotching her text.

"Hermione?" He called softly. "All right?"

She looked up. "Oh, Ron! Yes, I'm fine. Where've you been all day? The Professors were asking after you, and it's only by the grace of some higher power that McGonagall hasn't heard of your skipping classes, else you'd be dodging her wrath right now."

Ron grimaced. "Can't be helped. I found something out – concerning our mutual canine friend. I need you to come see."

Hermione glanced down at her spread-out work. "Help me carry this back to the Tower, and then we can go."

Ron knew better than to argue his urgency; Hermione was methodical in that, if she could help it, she never left her work disorganized and scattered about. She loftily stated when asked that it made it that much more difficult to pick up later on if all her notes were out of order.

They were coming down out of the Tower fifteen minutes later when they walked into Remus Lupin; the former professor looked worse for wear, even moreso than usual, with a haggard, death-warmed-over look. He looked like a corpse freshly exhumed, with all the dirt brushed away.

"Professor Lupin!"

"Hello children," Remus smiled tiredly. "I'm sorry, but I can't stay to talk. I must see the Headmaster immediately."

"About Harry?" Ron asked eagerly, pressing forward.

Remus shook his head. "I can't talk about that now. After I've seen Dumbledore, I promise you." He nodded his goodbye, and lurched past them.

Ron missed it, but Hermione's sharp eyes caught the trail of dripping blood Remus left in his wake, falling off of the tip of his right hand's fingers. Her eyes darkened in worry and she wondered just where the werewolf had come from.

* * *

"I've got an army."

"And the price of it?"

"Was acceptable. Don't worry."

"It is my job to worry. But I have faith in you. Are they ready to march?"

"All we have to do is point them in the right direction." : pause : "Any word on Harry?"

: sigh : "No. Severus has not yet reported in. I can only accept that at the moment he is unable to; and that he is keeping Harry safe."

"He can't even keep HIMSELF safe, let alone a fifteen year old boy!"

"Remus. Be fair."

: semi-hysterical laughter : "Why? Nothing and no one else ever has been." : silence : sigh : "All right. I suppose I must believe in something. Why not in Severus Snape?"

: long pause :

"You'll find Sirius in your old Charms classroom. He has been feverishly working on his own method of finding his errant godson; I trust that you will be able to aid in his endeavors."

"Of course. Thank you for your time, Albus."

"Dear boy, my door is always open to you."

: clicking of door closing : rustling of paper : quiet sigh :

* * *

Remus Lupin heard the murmur of raised voices before he could distinguish the words, and couldn't help the small and silly grin that crept over his face at the sound of it. It had been a long time since he'd met teenagers as headstrong and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley – he fondly remembered his own days of misspent youth – and when they butted skulls against Sirius Black, the results were absurdly comical.

Coming closer he was able to distinguish words, and then whole sentences.

"We have the right to be doing this, just as much as you do! He's our best friend, and we've got magic to burn!" That'd be Hermione; no one Remus had ever met had the outraged squawk down as well as she did. Lily would have been shamed by it.

"Yeah, unlike you! You're still staggering around like a junkie going through cold chicken symptoms!" And that would be Ron, with his confusing metaphors.

"Cold turkey, Ron. And do you even know what a junkie is?"

"Er. A strange sort of Muggle who likes to stand around on the streets?"

Hermione sighed. "I'll explain it all to you later. The truth isn't nearly so pretty. But anyways! Back to the topic at hand! You ARE going to let us help, Sirius Black, and you ARE going to show us how to cast these charms, and you ARE going to sit down and eat something and take a bloody bath, because, quite frankly, you stink."

Remus opened the door with an amused smirk. "She's right, Pads. You smell even worse than when you crawled through the Forbidden Forest for three days and nights back in Sixth. Cripes, the Fat Lady wouldn't even let you in with the smell you had on you."

Sirius didn't seem surprised to see his old friend and instead just turned to him and made a face. "And who was right beside me the entire time? You didn't exactly smell like roses either, you know."

"Ah," Remus smiled knowingly, "but I also didn't wade through the centaurs' dung pits."

Ron gagged; Hermione made a little face.

"What's going on here?" Remus asked, taking note of the room's rather inventive décor.

"We're making a Marauder's Map of Europe," Sirius explained.

"Hah!" Hermione crowed. "You said 'we'! You admit it, you need us!"

Sirius flapped a hand in her direction dismissively. "Yes, yes," he said, "of course. I could never refuse two so dedicated friends." He waved for Remus to sit down on any available stool. He and Hermione were both standing, and Ron was slouched against a wall; but Remus was exhausted from his long journey and couldn't find it in himself to remain upright for much longer. He slumped down and sighed happily.

"A Marauder's Map of Europe? That's not a bad idea. It'll take humongous amounts of work, however. Remember how bad the one of Hogwarts was?"

Sirius shrugged expansively. "We were young and stupid."

"The only thing that's changed is the young part," Remus pointed out wryly.

"Shut up, you. We're not going to be making it anywhere near as detailed as the one for Hogwarts was. Just your basic landmasses, maybe a couple of dots thrown around for towns, and the spelled locations for all wizards under thirty. That was as specific as I could make it without the parameters collapsing in on themselves."

Remus frowned. "Could I see your notes?"

Sirius handed them over silently, Hermione and Ron watching in fascination. They'd never seen the two wizards collaborating on something, and the concentration each gave to the project transformed the men from tired creatures to driven ones.

"Did you do a chart to figure the probability of success?"

"Should be near the back of that stack," Sirius shrugged. "I did one of the higher level Eighth forms under the Astral sign and factored in the differing power structures inherent in the battling forces. We got a fair percentage, but nothing awe-inspiring. We've done more with less, though, Moony."

Ron hadn't a clue what the two were babbling about, but Hermione mouthed to him, "Arithmancy," and it made sense. Arithmancy was Divination without the stupid death warnings and with enough numbers to make any adolescent male's head hurt. Ron hadn't taken it, but obviously Remus and Sirius had, and Hermione was the top in her class for it.

"You're right," Remus frowned, looking over Sirius' work. "These are better odds than when we figured on sneaking in the girls' dorm Fifth year. We made it then, even with Evans' elite charms working against us. You-Know-Who doesn't stand a chance." He settled the stack of notes by his feet. "All right – obviously this Map is going to be more difficult than the last one, but the preliminaries are done with." He fixed his sharp-eyed gaze to Hermione. "You were right about Sirius being almost burnt out. So am I. That means we're going to need you to do the lower-level charms. We're lucky to have you, Miss Granger; there's no one else I'd trust among our students to do such complicated magic." He glanced over at Ron. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, but we don't have the time for you to learn the charms that Miss Granger already knows. We're going to need you to be a tap - do you know what that is?"

Ron nodded. His face was slightly pale beneath his freckles. "Yeah. You'll be using my magic to keep your levels up. The twins do it all the time with one another. I think they have a natural affinity. And I used to with Gin, when we were younger, but it didn't take very well and Mum told us to stop the year I started at Hogwarts."

"A wise decision," Sirius nodded, face grim. "Bonds created by tapping can become binding and if one person remains dominant over the other for a period of time, the tap can unconsciously be made to stay open and active, therefore draining the submissive without permission or knowledge. I'm surprised you and your sister were even compatible enough to tap unaided – it's rare to happen between those of opposite sexes because the nature of the magic is fundamentally different."

Ron shrugged. "She's my sister. Weasley blood is the same no matter who it's in; same with Weasley magic."

Remus frowned. Taps didn't work that way, and neither did magic, but he didn't feel up to it to go into teacher mode at the end of an already long day and explain the differences. Apparently Sirius didn't either, because he just shook his head and smiled a little.

"It's getting late," Sirius pointed out gently. "Hermione, I've got the list of charms you'll need to be able to cast for the next few days. If you wouldn't mind practicing, it'd probably hurry the process up. And Ron, keep up your strength. We'll need it."

Ron and Hermione nodded and stood rigidly tall. They recognized the dismissal when it came and both went over to the door to go back up to their rooms; Hermione hesitated. "It was nice to see you both again," she said. "Take care of yourselves. We'll be back tomorrow after classes."

"G'night," Ron muttered, but it was obvious he shared in Hermione's sentiment.

Sirius and Remus waved them out the door and then sighed wearily as it shut behind them.

Remus said, "This is going to be a lot more difficult than we've made it sound to be, isn't it?"

"Yup. But you know that's just what makes it fun!"

Sirius and Remus shared a smile, filled with wildness but tempered by bone-deep exhaustion. Sometimes it was good to have another person around who understood without saying what it felt like to have come to the end of a very long road, only to find that it forked inevitably in two vastly differing directions – and that each upcoming path might turn out to be even longer than the one they'd just traveled.

* * *

Disclaimer&A/N: All characters and settings belong to J.K. Rowling. Sorry for the long wait! My computer actually crashed while I was in the middle of writing this… made me wince, then be hesitant to start with the re-write. It's a lot shorter than it's supposed to be – my pace is starting to slow down because of all of the set-up I have to do for the next couple of chapters. There's going to be another chapter of Hogwarts based stuff, then I'm jumping back to Harry & Snape, I swear. Please don't lynch me! Oh, and I apologize for the excessive use of original characters – they're just too much fun to create and then kill off, you know? Not that I'm saying anyone is going to die… 


End file.
